


It Wasn't In The Contract

by Alice_in_Black



Series: Nora Fitzpatrick [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6891493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_in_Black/pseuds/Alice_in_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This relationship went way further than MacCready was prepared for. And now, on the night of his -- what is this, a <i>wedding?</i> -- to the mayor of Goodneighbor and the general of the Minutemen, he's trying to figure out just how this whole thing even happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If All Parties Are Armed, Do We Call It A Shotgun Wedding?

It happened so fast. One minute it was just a low rumble of voices through the dimly lit shit-hole, the dull drone of an old record filling the bar while Magnolia rested between sets on a slow night; the next minute, the mayor crashed through the front doors, loudly enough to be heard down in the bar below. He came half-running-half-tumbling down the stairs into the Third Rail, his marred skin split wide with a grin. Behind him stumbled the usual compatriots in intoxication, Missus Fitzpatrick and MacCready tripping over their feet, clinging to each other as if each step was a new and unique challenge to be conquered. Trailing after the trio stomped their fearless bodyguard. Or babysitter, as the occasion called. Sober as a funeral, Fahrenheit herded the drunkards along with a brightly-burning cigarette hanging from her sneering lips.

Well, if they planned on bringing their wrecked arses down into Charlie’s establishment, at least Fahrenheit would keep their antics to a destructive minimum. Hopefully. The Mister Handy’s optics narrowed on them as they ambled up to the bar.

Mayor Hancock, at least, straightened himself up and made a show of pretending to be in his right mind as he approached.

“Hey, Chuck.” Only half as slurred as Whitechapel expected. Probably had Mentats for dinner. “I got a proposition for ya. And it starts with the proposition I made to these two five minutes ago.”

“Your name is Whitechapel, so we thought--” Nora hiccupped dramatically, and as if the force of it knocked her right off her feet, she dropped onto a nearby stool the same instant. Hancock might’ve been holding it together, but darling Miss Fitz was not. “--We thought, you gotta be ‘bout the closest thing to a right chapel, so--”

“So you gotta marry us!” Hancock declared.

Whitechapel Charlie’s engines idled, his steel body dipping backward. “Sorry, Mayor, this here’s a bar, and I’m a bartender, not a minister. Besides, as mayor, can’t you just do it yourself?”

Black eyes went especially blank, mystified. “Can I?”

“Can’t see why not, sir. You make the rules. And you are a public official and all.” Whitechapel’s mechanical limbs went back to their various tasks. One arm wiped a sopping rag across the bar, pushing dirty water back and forth in lazy circles, while the two others whipped together a stirred mixture of vodka and some other suspect liquids.

“You gotta point. Alright. Mags, mind if we borrow the stage? Won’t take long.” Hancock gratefully accepted the drink as Whitechapel finished it, and drank half the moment it hit his rad-scarred hand.

A minute later and Hancock had Fahrenheit and Magnolia helping him to rearrange the dressings around the stage. Too much to trip over, and they were bound to break some of Mag’s rare equipment in their states. To be fair, Hancock didn’t actually help with much of anything; he leaned heavily on Magnolia’s jukebox and waved his arm around demonstratively while Fahrenheit did the heavy lifting.

Nora Fitzpatrick turned on the drifter next to her on the bar, and cheerfully chattered away about their romantic evening thus far. It started with a card game, gradually forgotten as the booze set in and the conversation turned to impassioned declarations declarations of love. Grammar out the window, barely intelligible, arms swinging wide as she gesticulated every single syllable, Fitz was getting so into it that MacCready had to scoot his bar stool away to keep from getting smacked every other word.

MacCready’s glazed eyes watched Whitechapel’s robotic arms go about their work, hypnotized. His cheeks glowed red under the buzzing lights above, and perhaps he didn’t realize it, but he was smiling wide enough for his teeth to show.

“S’pose I ought to give you a wedding gift.”

MacCready perked up after a beat of delay. He blinked, unsure if he’d heard right, or knew where the sentence came from. “Whitey?”

“I said, I s’pose I ought to give you a wedding gift. Regular customer, marrying the mayor. Consider your tab clear, MacCready.”

“I paid off my tab last week.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“So it's just the two beers from yesterday.”

“You argue with every gift you’re given like this?”

“Whatever. Thanks, Whitechapel.”

“Ah, don’t mention it.”

“Hey, Charlie?”

“What now?”

MacCready swayed on the stool. He glanced to his right where Nora bent over the bar, still sobbing nonsensically about Hancock’s proposal to the drifter who desperately searched for a way out of the conversation. MacCready looked left to where Hancock was now positioning the microphone on the stage, pointing at the floor for Magnolia to mark where he wanted everyone to stand, no doubt to capture the full effect he had envisioned in his theatrical mind. And then, he looked back to Whitechapel, and his eyes were no longer glazed, but outright wet, brimming with tears. “This is real, right? How did I even get here?”

“You tell me, mate.”

And, since MacCready was drunk enough, he would proceed to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there isn't much here yet, but comments are greatly appreciated. Tell me what you think!


	2. Friends of friends of friends, et cetera.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready is about to get married, and he can't wrap his head around how he got so lucky. So', he's starting back at the beginning, and how he met Hancock and Nora Fitzpatrick.

“Okay, stop me if you’ve heard this one.”

They wouldn’t stop him. Just pass sidelong glances, maybe roll their eyes, or puff out a sudden breath like they’d been holding it an hour. But no one wasted the effort to stop him.

It was either make jokes at an unwilling, too-cool-to-laugh audience, or sit in silence and be reminded how isolated they were out here. How the highway stretched on and on and broke into a desolate heap of rubble aimed at the empty horizon of the Glowing Sea, how ghouls could be shuffling around on the lower levels right beneath their feet, how, if he stayed perfectly quiet for long enough, he might accidentally fool himself into hearing one of Duncan’s wheeled toys rolling around behind him.

The high ground. They had the high ground. Nothing to be afraid of. They set up barricades on the ends of the encampment, and could see an angry predator from miles away.

But even still, he felt alone. Even surrounded by seven other Gunners, damn did he feel so utterly alone.

Isolated. A sitting duck on top of an overpass.

“Why do bugs make a humming noise?”

A pause. Give everyone a chance to wonder. Let someone ask _”Why, MacCready?”_

No one did.

“Because they don’t know the words! Heh-heh. Get it?”

He could hear the chuckle-turned-cough of Ricca from her sleeping bag toward the end of camp. That was the most validation MacCready would get today.

Because after that, silence. The sun dipped out of existence in the west, the last gleam of orange fading fast into darkness. And just like that he was alone again. Surrounded by faces that never looked right at him.

He’d be alone until morning, when that gaggle of caravaners was supposed to be passing down on the road just below them.

How many caps was he making? MacCready didn’t remember what they agreed his share would be, though at the time of negotiation, those numbers had been the most important thing in the world to him. The sinking feeling in his stomach reminded him how desperate he’d been at first, how little he tried to negotiate better terms, since he knew it was good money either way. He just needed to hear that _number_.

How many caps? A lot, but not enough for this, he realized too late.

But not enough was better than zero. Make the most of it. More importantly, make _money_.

_But make the most of it._

MacCready whistled through his teeth. “Okay, okay. One more. Did you hear about that restaurant on the moon?”

~~~

Everyone talked about the city proper like it was some big, terrible bloodbath. And, yeah, they were _mostly_ right, but Boston itself could be easy to move through alone. Basic wasteland skills, really; stay close to walls, move through alleys and don’t get too exposed, spot threats before they spot you, move from cover to cover when you can.

Yeah, all things considered, he’d be in more danger if he was still with his squad of Gunners, trying to move undetected in a place like this. Easier to spot a mob than one slippery merc.

And, sure, maybe the folks higher up on the chain of command might be frustrated with him for defecting, but what did MacCready care? He could make money a hundred different ways. Didn’t have to be their way.

And in the long-term, wasn’t independence better? His meager earnings from working with the Gunners would never be worth enough to pay his whole squad to go to Med-Tek, if he could even convince the Gunners to do a job like that in the first place. And once he had the antidote, would he ever be able to leave? Would he owe them forever?

This was better. It had to be, because there was no going back.

MacCready opened the door to Goodneighbor with a shriek of its rusted hinges to announce his coming to every single drifter inside. And there were a lot of them, milling around, going in and out of the shops at the front of the town, giving each other trouble.

Enough people that the place buzzed with heat, energy, life. MacCready made it five steps in before a ghoul with a machine gun grunted at him to watch his step. _We look out for our own here_ , that ghoul had said.

A warning. But also an offer. A promise to anyone looking to start a ruckus or a new life, whichever brought them to the historic red-light district.

And that alone was more hopeful than anything MacCready heard from the Gunners in all his months running with them.

_We look out for our own here._ Yeah, MacCready knew what that kind of community felt like, and he knew to expect it from this place. It’d been years since he was part of anything like that himself, but it made the trash-filled streets instantly feel like home.

Anyway, if nothing else, Goodneighbor wasn’t a bad place to lie low and collect caps for a while.

MacCready saw himself first to Daisy, tucked away in her corner of the neighborhood, the light from her warm, welcoming storefront spilling out onto the street. She was a friend of a friend of a friend who promised she’d be a good point of contact for transport of goods to the Capital Wasteland. Also, it never hurt to have a hookup for ammo and supplies, or at least a local with an ear to the ground.

Okay, and sure, she let MacCready sleep on her couch when he wanted to save caps by not renting a bed at the Rexford. And she fed him every now and again, when he got really worried about spending too much on food and she got unimpressed with his liquid diet. And she sewed his pants back together when he ripped them, even though he told her that he knew how to sew just fine. She also sent off the letters he wrote for people back home, and never asked for payment.

You know. As friends of friends of friends do. No big deal. He definitely didn’t accidentally call her Lucy once.

MacCready only just made it inside Daisy’s shop and was getting comfortable, leaning his elbows on her counter with some slick compliment for his favorite trader, when a friendly hand came down on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake in greeting.

Relaxed posture from not-quite slouched shoulders to a slightly-cocked hip, with a smile that showed off a row of surprisingly straight and clean teeth, Hancock had a way about him, almost an aura, that deflected a lot of the instinctive sass MacCready might have thrown his way. No one wore confidence like that ghoul, or made every gesture and word equal parts casual and commanding. The swing of his arms looked careless, but he never got into people’s personal space unless he absolutely meant to. Every room he walked into, he got attention, and immediate respect. Hard to make a snide remark and tell the guy to keep his hands to himself when everything about Hancock convinced MacCready to go with the flow, the subtle _or else_ left unsaid but always present.

Hancock, the coolest ghoul in the Commonwealth, and probably any other place. Not like the title got much contest.

“Welcome back, kiddo. Last I heard, you were running with the Gunners. How’s that working out for you?” His hand was still on his shoulder. Holding him steady. The mayor’s other hand sat on the top of the counter, gnarled and scarred but relaxed and empty of weapons, right where MacCready could see. Deliberate.

“What does it matter?” MacCready intended for it to come out sharp. Without his permission, an evasive chuckle punctuated the sentence. “I was only here on and off a few weeks before I left. It’s not like I was signed up for the Goodneighbor draft.”

“Naw, just wonderin’ if you’ve got your whole flock about to follow you in, or if you’re back to running solo. I’ve got to know if we’re about to be waist-deep in Gunners any minute. So what’s the deal? Just you?”

“Yeah,” MacCready said, half to Hancock and half to Daisy. At least this meant he wouldn’t have to tell the story twice. “It just wasn’t working out with them. I ditched my squad a few days ago.” His dirty face split into a wry smile, hands rifling into his pockets. “Took a few souveniers first, though. Daisy, how many caps do you think this spare power core is worth? It’s almost got a full charge.”

“These old pals of yours won’t come calling on you?” Hancock asked. Nothing about his cadence changed, but the _c_ on _calling_ came out like the snap of a rubber band on the back of MacCready’s hand.

“Doubtful. They’ll probably assume I got torn apart by Super Mutants, or something. I’m not worried about it.”

Hancock nodded, still smiling, but MacCready couldn’t help but imagine a switchblade when he saw the way the mayor looked at him. Business end sheathed, but deadly sharp inside the handle, just waiting to come out and ruin someone’s day the moment shit hit the fan. For now, safe. For now, harmless. “You plan on staying?”

“This place is home to drifters, right? I’d say that would describe me. For now.”

“Yeah.” And the way his smile relaxed felt like he was handing that proverbial switchblade to MacCready, welcoming him to make use of his deadly protection any time. He was part of the community now, one of Hancock’s people, just like that. Hancock lifted his hand from MacCready’s shoulder, giving it one last parting smack. “I guess it would. Well, in that case, welcome home. You went to the Third Rail a few times in your visits here before, right? Find me there tonight. I’ll get your first round.”

~~~

Okay, so he hadn’t exactly planned for the local bar to end up his place of residence, but it was sure looking like the arrangement. Whitechapel was a good bot, and gave MacCready work in exchange for a steady flow of drinks and a couch to sleep on when it was quiet and nobody needed or asked for the private room.

Every few nights, the mayor descended into the tunnels to have a drink and chat with his locals. He’d peek into the private room if he couldn’t find MacCready at the bar, smile that wide, toothy grin of his, and promise the first drink on him. Every time. A wave of his hand, and backward roll of his head, he made sure every bit of his tone and body language was welcoming and unintimidating.

And what did he want in exchange? As far as MacCready could ever figure out, nothing. Sometimes there was a job or two, but he usually delegated that to Whitechapel or Fahrenheit first, who would then dispense the work to MacCready. All the mayor himself ever asked of him was a drinking buddy.

It took weeks before MacCready stopped waiting for Hancock to tell him his end of the bargain. A month and a half, actually, during which MacCready had taken every sip of beer with a sideways look at the ghoul, expecting that to be the time he come in with a smooth, “Actually, there is this one thing you could take care for for me…”

And the night he stopped listening for it was the night that Hancock, four beers and a box of Mentats in, draped his arm over MacCready’s shoulders as they watched Magnolia croon something sorrowful and said, “Shit, have I told you how good it is that you came here to stay? There’s more work in Diamond City, and more money to go around, but this, this right here, is _right_. Yeah, I’m real glad you set up here.”

Hancock was a new ghoul, a rare thing, but he ensured that the people in his town always felt welcome, whatever they were and where they hailed from. He said it was his responsibility to the ghouls, but he always let his too-cool attitude slip for just a moment when his eyes got dark to imagine what they must’ve seen. It made MacCready thankful that he didn’t have Hancock’s empathy.

Really, the guy was as good a fellow as MacCready had ever known. They sat side by side, facing the stage. Hancock was at the edge of his chair to better reach his arm over the back of MacCready’s chair, and MacCready felt more comfortable than ever surrounded by ghoul folk.

Yeah. He was glad he set up here, too.

MacCready switched his beer to his other hand. He figured Hancock wouldn’t mind the condensation left on his palm as he casually-as-possible placed it on the knee of his antique trousers.

It never went further, but neither of them pushed it. The sense of personal space between them lifted to a comfortable, unspoken understanding that they were in the hug-hello-hug-goodbye level of friendship, the kinds of hugs that didn’t end with pats on the back so much as a parting squeeze when Hancock realized Fahr left the room without him.

Goodneighbor felt more like Little Lamplight every day. Safe, consistent, with a reliable community around him, playful crushes between friends that never went anywhere but reminded you that you were cared for deeply.

Like being a kid again. It felt good. If only he could sleep at night knowing Duncan was having a similarly happy childhood.

~~~

“I’ve got a friend in town,” Hancock said offhandedly. He stood from the couch and shook the wrinkles from his coat. Sometimes the mayor stopped in to say hello in the mornings and make sure MacCready’s hangover wasn’t about to actually kill him. “Fella named Nick Valentine. Bit of a big deal here in the Commonwealth, and a real good guy. I think he’s going to be bringing one of his friends by. They were looking for a gun, and I recommended you. If anyone’s gonna make good on a deal for ya, it’ll be Nicky and his pals.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Shit, this meant he should probably wash his face or something, huh? Sober up the rest of the way from last night, get the smell of liquor off him. Stern professionalism wasn’t really his thing, but if he wanted to get paid, he had to convince them he was worth the price tag. No one hires a marksman who can’t see straight. “Hey, I’ll see you tonight?”

“Nah, raincheck, my friend. Having a talk with some neighborhood watch guys, need to set a record or two straight. Keeping the peace, mayoral duties, you feel me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Been there, done that. I’ll let you know what happens with that friend of yours.”

“Sure.”

MacCready had just enough time to rinse his face with cold water to take some of the ruddiness out of his cheeks before a sharp knock demanded his attention at the front of the VIP room. He also greeted them with a smile - it wouldn’t do to be a jerk to a friend of Hancock when the good ghoul stuck his neck out for him, and making money was always something to smile about - but whoever Nick Valentine was, he wasn’t the one knocking.

“Oh, look who it is.” Maybe if he forced a cool demeanor and fought back the tightness in his throat, they wouldn’t see how surprised he was. He’d focus on being angry instead. Yeah, angry made a stronger statement than being shaken.

His guests, in their green Gunner getups, had the kind of familiar faces you never wanted to see again. Winlock and Barnes, both looking dour as ever, represented the only thing that separated Gunners from the raucous raiders: structured authority. Which also made them dangerous because, well, having two enemies ain’t near as bad as having two enemies plus a few dozen of the nearest and dearest.

“Can’t say I’m surprised to find you in a dump like this, MacCready,” said Winlock.

‘Dump’ was a relative term, MacCready almost pointed out. And this place had been damn good to him. But, rather than draw attention to the town that’d knowingly sheltered him from his former associates, he said, “I was wondering how long it’d take your blood hounds to track me down. It’s been, what, three months? You’ve gotten rusty. Or maybe it’s just your second-hand power armor. Either way, I’m as unimpressed now as I was working for you.”

Maybe if he could master that don’t-eff-with-me attitude that Hancock and the others pulled off, he could avoid firing any bullets. He prefered to shoot long range. Very long range. Preferably to the ignorance of the target. But indoors, close quarters? Not MacCready’s style. And if this was going to escalate he wanted two things: to have some sort of environmental advantage, and to be right where the neighborhood watch could swarm and help to shoot them down. Imagining Hancock shooting their heads off from the Statehouse balcony was a good image, indeed. “Want to take this outside?” he continued, maybe a little hopefully.

“It ain’t like that. Just here to deliver a message,” Winlock answered.

What kind of message did one send in response to defection and larceny that didn’t include a fight, MacCready wanted to know, but Barnes continued, “You’re still operating in Gunner territory. That isn’t going to work for us.”

The merc almost wanted to smile. So, he was going to get away with stealing from them, and defection, and their only remaining beef was that he was scraping barely enough caps to live off of in their turf? Big deal! “I don’t take orders from you, not anymore!” MacCready sneered back.

“Listen up, MacCready,” Winlock said. The vein in his forehead was starting to pulse, making the O+ tattoo distort weirdly. “The only reason we haven’t filled your body up with bullets is because we don’t want a war with Goodneighbor.”

Oh, so it would start a war? He knew it’d be ugly, but a war? Did Hancock say something? Were people saying things about him and Hancock? MacCready was too angry to get excited, but he’d tuck those questions away for later.

“We respect boundaries,” Barnes cut in, taking two menacing steps forward, “something you never learned.”

“Sorry to have disappointed you.” He meant it, too. He only wished he could fit more bitterness and sass into his words to show it properly.

“You can play the tough guy all you want, but if we hear you’re still operating in Gunner territory, all bets are off. You hear me?”

Their muscled frames, well-fed and hard-worked, mostly blocked his view of the front of the room. But, between their shoulders MacCready barely caught sight of a fluffy tuft of shiny brown hair, glowing auburn in the tinted lights of the bar. He could only glimpse her, but he half-swore he was looking at some kind of old snack cake advertisement; the face was too round, too cute, the eyes too wide and the lips too innocent to be real.

“You finished?” Wrap it up, wrap it up!

“Yeah. We’re finished.” Barnes and Winlock traded a look and started out the door together, shoving roughly past his guest as they went.

She went backwards, and probably would have dropped to the ground if not for the robot who caught her under her arms and kept her upright.

“You alright, Fitz?” The synth made sure to give the departing Gunners a stinkeye, and boy did he have the eyes to make a look like that sink in deep.

“I’m fine. Thanks. Um,” she said, flustered, as she straightened herself and tried to collect her bearings.

Were Winlock and Barnes far enough that they wouldn’t hear? Striking up a conversation about business while they were still in earshot was asking for ten different kinds of trouble, but he needed the caps bad. “You must be Hancock’s friend. He says you’re looking for a hired gun. If that’s true, maybe we can talk.”

And yeah, she looked like the type in need of a gun. Baby-faced and unscarred, dressed in… holy crap, a blue jumpsuit. Vaulties have a fraction the normal life expectancy, as a rule of thumb. The fact that she even had a gun on her hip was noteworthy. “Yes. Actually. Nick has a lot of cases, and I need to, uh, clear out some raider nests around some Minuteman Settlements. I need someone who can keep me alive, I suppose, while Nick is in Diamond City. My name is Nora Fitzpatrick, I’m from up north, Sanctu-- Vault One-Eleven.”

“Okay. Nick Valentine,” the robot, who MacCready gave a curt nod at, “is the one that Hancock vouched for. So, what about you? How do I know I’m not going to end up with a bullet in my back?”

She looked repulsed at the thought. Genuinely, really shocked that he’d even suggest it. Her brown - hazel? - hazel eyes flinched. “I would never! Are you talking about those men who just left? I have no idea who they are. I wouldn’t compromise our arrangement, and I know you wouldn’t, either; you were the first and only mercenary that Mayor Hancock would recommend to us. He said you were the best shot, and I’d be safe with you. I wouldn’t betray you for that. And I’ll pay whatever your rates are.”

Good enough.

“Alright, you have my attention. Price is two-hundred and fifty caps. Up front. And there’s no room for bargaining.” If she had those kinds of caps, it’d make the risk of doing business under the Gunner’s noses worthwhile, at least.

Nora started to nod. Then stopped short. “So, what’s the rate after the fixed contracting fee? Does that cover hazard pay, or is that extra? Or is two-hundred fifty a salary rate? Is that weekly or monthly? I’m sorry, I want to make sure we have everything straight.”

“Uh, no, just the two-hundred-- What are you--?”

She swung her backpack in front of her and opened it up to reveal lots of the usual, food, munitions, first aid kit, and a thick stack of folders, each filled with salvaged papers. She pulled one out and started rifling for blank sheets. “Let’s sit down. Do you have a contract prepared, or should I draft one from scratch?” Her hazel - brown? - brown eyes got a bit wider, maybe even excited at the prospect.

“Excuse me, what? A contract? No, you pay me, and I shoot people, that’s really it--”

“Medical expenses will be covered as long as we’re traveling together, as well as room and board wherever we stay… Do you have a last will and testament? I should probably get a copy from you.” 

“She’s a lawyer,” Nick chimed in, as if it explained everything. “Estate lawyer, to be exact, but she takes contracts seriously.”

“How seriously?”

“Took us about three hours to get through mine.”

“Holy sh-- _shoot_.”

“Excuse me, how do you spell your name? Also, please list any aliases or pseudonyms that you go by. I want to cover all our bases.”

Well. At least he’d have a boss who cared, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and notes are greatly appreciated. Tell me what you think! Also, find me on Tumblr ([AliceLivesOn](http://aliceliveson.tumblr.com/)) and be my friend/tell me to write stuff!


	3. Put Your Money Where Your Gun Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready is about to get married, and he can't wrap his head around how he got so lucky. So, he's going back to the beginning, where he realized that these two were both something remarkably special to him, and that he was actually special to them.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

MacCready chuckled, and that tipped her off. “You just di--”

“You’re the worst,” she groaned. “No, I mean it. Can I ask you something really… really unfair?”

It usually took her a couple drinks to open up. Maybe it was taking her less booze lately, or maybe the reasons she kept to herself were starting to ebb away. MacCready wouldn’t ask, whatever the case was. She’d had a rough enough day already since getting back to Sanctuary; the first few hours here had been spent alone with Preston, and whatever went down between them left her with puffy eyes and a weary tone. “If you’re about to ask about breaching our contract, I’m going to have to call my lawyer,” he warned. Best to keep the atmosphere light.

Fitz laughed. Thank God. Maybe a little too strained, but it was there.

She wore the mantle of ‘general’ with tremendous respect, and MacCready could think of only one or two people he’d ever known in his lifetime who could compete with her professional-yet-earnest diplomacy. All in all, she was a good person, the likes of which the wastes rarely saw, and never for long.

Her soul was as gentle as her face, all round cheeks and wide eyes and big teeth in soft lips. Like a candy mascot, he thought as he killed the last of his third beer, she ought to be printed on the side of a cardpaper package with some stupid slogan in bubble letters. _Free legal advice in every box!_ , maybe. Or, _Mail your wrappers and win notary certification!_ He could just imagine that ringing laugh of hers on repeat from a radio eyebot, stuck in a centuries-long loop of a campy advertisement campaign.

The point was, whether you were seeing the solemn general side of her, or the cute, dorky lawyer side of her, none of it looked right in combat armor. The gun didn’t sit right in her hands. She flinched every time she pulled the trigger, her hands shook when she had to reload. She cried more nights than not. All this on top of what Valentine had delicately described as her being ‘a bit on the nervous side.’

What they went through wasn’t quite the same, but the sudden moments of inconsolable panic, the gnawing fear that coiled up at the bottom of your stomach as you just waited for something to go wrong… yeah. He could relate. Call it ‘nervous,’ call it whatever you want, MacCready recognized it, knew it intimately, and gosh-darn it, he respected all her the more for it.

His hand twitched faster to his rifle these days. When Lucy died, MacCready would have given anything to know he had someone there for him, someone to protect him and Duncan when he felt like he couldn’t protect himself. So, he’d be that for her. It was the least he could do.

He hadn’t mentioned Med-Tek yet. But he knew, without a doubt, she’d agree to go with him. It was just the kind of person she was turning out to be. He already felt like he owed her. So, yeah, he’d protect her. On every little chore she agreed for for someone else, when they went to get Duncan’s medicine, no matter the circumstances, he would protect her.

And it felt good to have her back in Sanctuary. The last few days she’d been hanging out with Hancock, who was slithering around here somewhere, probably catching up with Valentine, maybe having a beer with Piper. Everyone liked Hancock, even when they thought they didn’t. Danse could say the dumbest crap sometimes, but even he never made the slightest aggressive move toward their good mayor. It was the effect Hanock had on folks. He just smiled and made a joke, did that thing where he shifts his body with you while you’re talking so you know he’s listening, that kind of stuff, and you just had to like him.

She continued, pulling MacCready out of his reverie.

“I know it’s a horrible thing to bring up, but… do you ever think about all the best relationships in your life and wonder if you'll ever be loved like that again? Not like you don't deserve it, or out of respect for their memory, but you just… ran out of whatever luck gave you them in the first place?”

“That one of your superstitions, too?” MacCready asked. But damn, did that question have a bitter aftertaste. He tipped his bottle back even though he knew the remaining droplets would only disappoint him. “Luck, as a finite resource?”

“Feels that way sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Heh, well, look. I didn’t know Nate, and I don’t know what you guys had. But wherever you go, and whatever happens, you’re always going to find people who are going to love you.” Magnetism, an instinctive pull that tells everyone around she can be trusted. Just like what Hancock had, actually. It just came naturally to love them.

She smiled and set her beer down on the rickety plastic table between them. The umbrella had long since been repurposed to cover up a hole in a roof someplace, but it was for the better. Sanctuary got the best view of the stars, way out here, far from any other settlements or encampments. “Thank you, MacCready.”

“Anytime. I think I’ve told you about the same thing before.”

“It helps to hear again, I guess. Constant reassurance, remind me that it doesn’t stop being true.”

“Yeah. No, I get it. Speaking of ‘hear again,’ you remember where we left off?” His smile went wide. “Let’s be honest, it’s the real reason we hang out.”

“I know. No other reason.” Fitz tapped the glass of the bottle and laughed. The clink sound wasn’t hollow enough. There was still probably half left.

“Right? We’re not even friends.”  
Her eyes sparkled. That lie would never work on her. Good, he never wanted her to think it could be true. “Alright. I think we left off with you on Grognac… um, twenty-three? He was escaping the temple, but the time-traveling mummy-Mussolini stopped him.”

“His name is _Mortalio_ , Fitz. And if that’s where we are, the next one’s good. Unless you want to keep going with your crime one.” The nuanced and realistically dramatic style of procedurals mostly left MacCready sleepy by the end, but it became really fun when he pretended the hardened detective in the story was Nick. Nora remembered every darn detail like she’d just heard the radio plays that morning, so it was easy to follow along, and she got really into the pre-war context, which made it fun in its own way when he asked her to elaborate on certain details from long ago.

“No,” she said, slouching deeper into her seat, getting comfortable. “I want to hear more Grognac. How does he get out this time?”

“Okay.” MacCready bent forward and put his elbows on the table. MacCready just sort of remembered the comic plots as he rambled, half memory and half improvising based, and probably made a whole lot less sense. But it was fun, and that was what this was really about. “Issue twenty-three opens on Grognac running through the hall to the big door of the temple. Grognac has nearly escaped, but he’s already all messed up from his fight with the zombies. So, the door kicks in,” MacCready pantomimes with a wide swing of his arms, “there’s a cloud of dust, and Mortalio is standing there, and he goes, ‘Grognac, you will never--’”

“No,” she said, waving her hand, “do the voices!”

“Oh, jeez, Fitz--” It felt like when he told these stories to Duncan. Tucked into bed when the sun dipped below the horizon, covers pulled up to his chin...

“Do the voices!”

His eyes rolled hard enough to see into his brain. “Okay! Okay. So Mortalio goes, eherm, ‘Grooognaaac!! You will never escaaape!!’”

And she laughed. God, did MacCready love the sound of her laugh.

 

~~

 

Two miles from Sanctuary, just a bit to the east, where the trees swayed their dry, rattling branches overhead and cast shadows like death across the forest floor, MacCready laid beside her. He reached over her shoulder, and grasped her wrists. “Just relax,” he breathed.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t relax, either.

His fingers swept over hers. The ridge on his index finger, the callous left by years of pulling triggers, felt sharp enough to cut the back of her hand. “It’s alright. Relax. _Relax_.”

Her muscles felt stiff beneath him, but they gave ever so slightly as he whispered. “Good girl. Are you alright?”

She made a soft noise in her nose.

“Are you ready?”

After a beat, she repeated the noise.

“Take a breath.”

She did, and then she held it in anticipation.

MacCready’s hands tightened around hers, and she followed his lead. The rifle shattered the air, and while the birds around them shot upward, a single insectoid corpse fell down.

“See! Perfect shot! It’s not so hard, you just need to have confidence!” MacCready congratulated. He pulled himself away from her and gave her shoulder a little shake. “And you didn’t even jump at the sound!”

“The silencer helps,” Fitz answered, humble as ever. “Thanks for putting that on.”

“The mod was by Tin Man, actually, but you’re welcome,” he said. “You wanna try again? You know, you aimed that shot all on your own. I barely even need to help you line it up anymore.”

Nora Fitzpatrick was already climbing back up to her feet, brushing the clinging dead leaves off the front of her blue vault suit. She really needed a new outfit, if she was going to convince anyone that she was a true wastelander. That had to be part of her transformation, he decided then, for her to finally get her head in the game and her place in this awful world sorted out. The vault, and everything it meant to the world and everything it symbolized to her, was only holding her back.

But that was oversimplifying, wasn’t it? He’d never expect her to let go of _everything_. That would include her son. His heart dropped every time he remembered that she had a kid out there, somewhere. Shaun was the reason she was doing this, the reason she was determined to survive, the reason she wanted so badly to make this world a better place where SHaun could be safe and happy.

“I think this is a good place to call it a day,” Fitz said. “Preston still wanted to teach me some wilderness survival stuff tonight, and then Danse said he wants to train me more on equipment maintenance.” Which was important, sure, but sounded boring as heck. It probably counted as riveting material by Nora’s weird standards of entertainment, though. “I’m in Sanctuary for three days, so we’ve got to make the downtime count.”

“That’s not what ‘downtime’ _means_.”

She pulled her cigarettes out from the leather harness over her vault suit. She didn’t used to smoke.

“Do what you want,” MacCready said. “Just don’t work yourself too hard. You’ll wind up dead if you go back out into the Commonwealth exhausted.”

“And I’ll wind up dead if I don’t get my act together and start taking on this wasteland stuff seriously.” She lit her cigarette, eyes downcast, away from him. “Thanks for the shooting lesson, MacCready. Can we do it again tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sure.” It came out quieter than he’d meant to say it. He made a point of adding extra enthusiasm as he continued, “First thing in the morning?”

“Sounds good.”

The walk back was mostly spent in silence. Nora Fitzpatrick passed her cigarette back and forth with MacCready until it burned out into the butt, and then MacCready lit his own, which they passed between them, and continued the cycle until they plodded over the wooden bridge.

Halfway across the bridge, Hancock was walking toward them with that easy stride of his. His eyes kept going upward to watch the sky. MacCready glanced up to see if a rad storm was gathering in the fluffy white clouds, but all looked peaceful and clear.

“Hey, Hancock!” MacCready picked up his pace once they were close enough to not make it too weird. “What’re you doing out here?”

Hancock lifted his shotgun demonstratively. “Preston told me to hunt down something for supper. Extra mouths in town gotta be fed somehow.”

“So, what, you’re going to find a radstag, fill it up with buckshot, and drag two hundred pounds of deadweight all the way home by yourself?” MacCready asked flatly. “I’m coming with you.”

“Good idea,” Fitz said. She went past them and said over her shoulder, “You’ll be done quicker together. Just don’t wander out too far, and don’t let it get dark on you!”

Hancock huffed an airy laugh through the hollow of his nasal cavity. “You worry too much, sunshine. We’ll be back before you know it!”

Once they made it back over to the far side of the bridge, MacCready glanced in Sanctuary’s direction and the small shape of blue retreating in the distance. “So. Calling her ‘sunshine’ to her face now, huh?”

“Yeah. Nothin’ about it, just kind of comes out.”

“No, I get it. It suits her.”

“Nora’s got a lot on her plate. An’ I just want her to know I’m her her corner. Don’t wanna fuck that up, make it any more complicated than it has to be.”

That was Hancock for you. He said it so casually, so coolly, that you’d never guess how deeply he’d thought about it, considered the consequences, played through the possibilities in his head and come to the sound conclusion. He was for the people, that was for sure. Whatever did right by the people, and that meant Miss Fitz, MacCready, any of them.

It was all about the people to him. It always would be.

And MacCready flinched to compare himself to Hancock. As far as mayors went, Hancock blew MacCready sky-high out of the water. Sure, he got a little bit of credit for being frikkin’ kid at the time, but even if he were in that position now, would he have treated all his people with Hancock’s level of respect? Of unconditional love? Hancock was the only mayor he’d ever seen collect taxes from his citizens and have _them_ thank _him_.

Maybe it was his charisma. Maybe he just made everyone think he was looking into their hearts with those big black eyes of his. But he just read people too well for it to be anything but empathy, and MacCready dismissed the theory before it’d even fully formed.

“She’s smoking more,” MacCready noted.

“Preston’s got her off chems,” Hancock said. Rather, growled.

That made MacCready’s brows lift. “That’s… good?”

“Not when she’s having anxiety attacks all the damn time, and Jet’s the best way to calm her down. Just… when you’re out with her, make sure she knows you won’t judge her, alright? I’m starting to get real scared about it.”

He answered with a solemn nod, one that he hoped looked stoic and strong enough to be reassuring. Surely Preston’s word would mean more to her than his, but he’d do his best, whatever that was worth.

“I've got a few ideas for ways to help, but I don't think being in Sanctuary is the solution. Being the general is killin' her."

“So, you’re gonna be headed back down to Goodneighbor?” MacCready asked. His throat got tight. He imagined violet-blue boils, rasping coughs, a little boy tucked into bed and barely moving.

“Yeah, that's the plan. You need to head back, too?”

“Yeah.” MacCready swallowed the painful feeling that his heart was in his throat. “Actually, I need to stop someplace on the way. It’d be… it’d be something I’d like you and Fitz with me for. I’ll save the details for when I’ve got both of you, and it’s probably asking a lot, but--”

He stopped when Hancock placed on pitted hand on his elbow, holding him in place and stopping their trek. “Whatever it is, you know Nora and I love ya,” he said, not noticing when MacCready glanced away. “We gotyer back.”

MacCready led Hancock into the opposite direction of where he’d conducted the shooting lesson earlier. They wanted to go where the wildlife wasn’t already skittish and aware of danger. They chatted softly most of the walk, going quiet whenever they thought there might be something worth shooting at.

Slim pickings in the Sanctuary neighborhood. So much for all those radstags they usually saw.

“Think all your shooting earlier tipped them off?” Hancock huffed.

“This far out? No.” The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He adjusted his grip on his rifle with a quick run of his fingers over the safety.

Hancock read that fear in his movements like bold-faced letters on paper. He leveled his shotgun to fire at any sound or provocation, and stepped a bit ahead of MacCready where they could both be sure he wouldn’t risk stepping into the spray.

Something heavy hit the forest floor far to their left, shaking trees and sending a shiver down MacCready’s spine. A low, rough sound hit him with the force of a punch in the gut. “Sh-- _oot_ ,” he said on an inward breath. “Should we book it back?”

“We make too much racket, and it’ll just follow us,” Hancock growled. “We either move slow and careful, and be ready if it catches up, or we make the first move.”

Talk about lose-lose. MacCready swallowed the growing lump in his throat. At least a slow, steady getaway meant less chance of going toe-to-toe with a monster right out of childhood nightmares.

“Back the way we came, then. If we get closer to the river, we can let the sound cover us.” He couldn’t get quiet enough. No matter how low he dropped his voice, he was always certain that the thing some forty yards away would hear and come running. “Let’s go.”

It wouldn’t be the last time he’d get too close for comfort to a Deathclaw. His first run-in with one out in the wide wastes had been only a week after leaving Little Lamplight, just outside of Big Town. It was a very quick, sudden reminder that life wouldn’t be any easier, any safer, as an adult. Being big meant nothing when you were still the bottom of the post-apocalyptic food chain. And things like this, they didn’t go down with one well-placed bullet through the eye. They fought and lashed and bit and charged with more rage than most humans could fit in their bodies, no matter how close to death. The best way to deal with them, then, was by putting enough distance that if one did come running at you, you’d have plenty of time to shoot. It’d take more than one reload, unless luck was really on your side.

And it wasn’t. At least, not for MacCready. He remembered that pointedly when the sound like a building crashing down came at them through the trees, shaking the ground in its rage. The soil beneath him quaked like he was standing on a drum, and there was no mistaking, they’d been spotted.

Now, for most people, a deathclaw rampaging through the woods would be a quick and messy death. But what these two lacked in luck, they made up for in experience no lucky men would ever have.

MacCready could aim for its head despite its gait and speed. He’d been practicing since he was ten, so there was no excuse not to.

Pulling the trigger was such perfectly ingrained muscle memory that MacCready didn’t even need to think about it. The sights followed the monster’s head, barrel trained for the softest part as it came roaring in, and the trigger pulled inward as if on its own, as if it knew as well as MacCready did when the shot was perfect--

It roared louder. The bullet went into its eye. When it swung its head in agony, MacCready looked for an exit wound. None. He worked the bolt to set in a new round, and fired again. He didn’t have to realign his aim between the shots; it never wavered, his sights moved with the recoil easy as watching with his own eyes.

Now, Hancock had a different experience with fighting. Less sniping, less guarding a city from atop a lookout point, less avoiding direct confrontation with the bigger, angier brutes of the world from behind a barricade with fifty other prepubescents. Hancock was an all-in, guns blazing sort of fellow. His shotgun had the range of a confetti popper and the spread of a frag grenade.

Confidence incarnate, he slid near enough to kiss the namesake claws of the deathclaw. Barrel aimed up, he fired both shells into the monster’s jaw. Bits of bone and scale and flesh splattered, tripping up MacCready’s aim only for a heartbeat before he was firing his next round into its temple.

“Hancock, back up!” MacCready cried.

He didn’t need to be told, but seeing him reloading at the deathclaw’s feet made MacCready’s heart hammer in his ears. It was making it hard to aim., especially when it took a swipe. Hancock’s coat tore in two places just that MacCready could see, and there was no denying some of that red was too bright to be the antique fabric.

Hancock half-retreated, half-stumbled a whole five steps, just enough room to safely place two new shells and snap the break back with an amount of flair and style that was entirely uncalled for in this situation. And he was back just like that, aiming again for the lower side of its face.

The shotgun banged, MacCready’s rifle followed, and one metric ton of muscle and claws slammed back into the ground.

“...We may need more help carrying this back,” MacCready mused, breathless. “Here, I’ll get you back to town, me and the Minutemen will bring it in. You okay?”

“We’ll be eating good tonight, that’s for damn sure.” Hancock’s black flinched shut. “I’ll just keep reminding myself how worth it it’ll be in a few hours…!”

“Hey, hey, lean on me. Put your arm-- good, alright. You’re breathing, you can see, you’re not bleeding out too bad, I think you're going to be fine… How deep did it get you? We’re probably closer to the Abernathy farmstead than Sanctuary, if you don’t think you can make it that far.”

“‘S not that deep, I can walk home fine. Force behind it is what really got me. Think it cracked a rib. Nothing a few stims, couple stitches, and a dose of Med-X can’t fix. And some deathclaw steak, I think I earned some prime cut!” MacCready looped his arm beneath Hancock’s armpits and carried him back to town, and though it was at a significantly slower pace than they’d come, Hancock kept up conversation and showed no signs of passing out. The blood loss would be manageable, especially by the doctor Fitz got working in Sanctuary.

“I’ve never walked away from a deathclaw fight and not felt rattled to the bone,” he said when they came up on the bridge. “I mean, yeah, you’re a little messed up, but… I guess I didn’t feel as close to death as I should have.”

“We’ve got a good dynamic, you and I,” Hancock rasped. He winced, but turned it into a wink. “Ain’t afraid of nothin’ with you.”

“Glad to have your vote of confidence.”

“Little hurt that you’ve had your arm around me this whole time and didn’t try and cop a feel even once, though.”

“Hey, I’m holding your whole body weight up! You wanna get fresh, you’re going to have to work with me a little.”

“You kiddin’? I’m light as a feather, you can move your arm and still keep a grip on me. You just gotta want it enough.”

MacCready snorted. He adjusted his rifle on his back and reached across Hancock with his other arm, holding him awkwardly for a moment but succeeding in grabbing one half of ass before pulling him back to lean against his shoulder like before. Most sarcastic assgrab in the history of the post-war world, but hey, what did Hancock expect? “There. Consider yourself felt up. Is your ego healed, or should we ask the doc to fix that, too?”

“Actually, yeah. That was a lot gentler than I expected. You’ve always been the sentimental type--”

“Har-har. Joking aside, Fitz’s gonna flip when she sees you like this. Maybe think less about flirting and more about how we’re going to deal with that.”

“Nah, Nora’s seen worse. But… let’s go around the other side of her house, yeah? The side without windows.”

“Good thinking.”

 

~~

 

Suburbs always had an especially ominous feel to them. Less impersonal than offices or government buildings, they had a distinctly human presence in a way that made the heart rattle in its chest. Names and dates carved into the notches on a doorframe. Special articles of clothing, threadbare polyester still hanging in closets waiting for a special occasion, tailored to fit the owner perfectly in a way it would never fit anyone else. Mementos to remind you that millions of people as real and as alive as you all got wiped out with a wave of radioactive devastation.

Sanctuary was no different. It had all the evidence of the bustling lives lived before the bombs, had every detail screaming ‘ghost town,’ but these settlers were bound and determined to undermine the lingering atmosphere of death.

The clinic, once a house with three bedrooms to shelter a whole happy family, looked like a mess on the outside. Drastic measures to patch up the walls and roof had the whole thing looking like a Frankenstein Monster of ramblers. At what point was it less work just to tear the whole thing down and start from the ground?

Hancock was stuck in the room with only one bed. Sure, he was well enough to go in the main infirmary, but he was the doctor’s only patient and as long as he was getting constant guests at all hours of the day, it made sense to give him the private suite.

He now sat in the narrow bed, sitting up and legs sprawled over the side comfortably. Always a weird sight to see him out of his colonial getup, but the plain white shirts and shorts proved there was more to his charisma than his clothes. Somehow, one shy step from his birthday suit, Hancock still had command of the room.

MacCready, meanwhile, never felt so insubstantial. He sat at the little table on the doctor’s wheeled chair, toying with the medical supplies nervously.

“Med-Tek?” Fitz repeated after him from her perch at the foot of Hancock’s bed. The levity from five minutes ago was long gone with the sound of that name. Hancock’s hat, sitting crooked on her head, looked like an out of place comedy prop in an old dramatic film.

To hear the name said aloud by someone else felt like a punch in the gut. Or maybe it was the general tension in the room knotting his insides tighter than wood in a vice, ready to splinter any second.

Hancock looked fine after a couple days of rest under the doc’s watchful eye. He was ready to go back out, to head to Goodneighbor again for his meeting with Fred Allen. Nora would go with him, of course.

And, according to Hancock, and based on everything he knew about the two philanthropic bleeding-hearts, and how far their friendships had come, he knew they would both make a detour. But only if MacCready could ask them outright what for.

Something between pride and fear of rejection made the words come out slower, thicker, quieter. Bad enough that he couldn’t save Duncan himself, but now he was putting his friendships on the line. He was putting their _lives_ on the line. How could he ask this of them? How could expect any answer but no, regardless of what the good mayor promised? How could he _want_ them to agree like he knew deep down they would, understanding just how dangerous the task would be?

“Med-Tek,” MacCready said again. He didn’t know how hopeful to be, since he hadn’t made eye contact with either of them since bringing it up. “You two have been good to me. Too good, really. I know I can’t ask more of you than you’ve already done for me, after taking care of Winlock and Barnes, but the whole reason I’m here in the Commonwealth at all is to get into Med-Tek.”

“Alright. Consider it done,” Fitz said with the firm conviction of a true general. Not a beat of hesitation, not a breath of uncertainty.

“What for, exactly?” Hancock drawled. His feet went firm on the floor, but he made no move to stand. “Answer is yes, of course we’ll go with you damn-near anywhere, but I thought you were in town getting money to take care of a problem back home.”

Fitz blinked. “Back home? You mean the town of kids?” The extent of her knowledge of his tragic backstory.

“His family,” Hancock elaborated for him.

It was only natural that Hancock would know any details that Daisy knew. No one would hold out that kind of intel from the mayor, and even MacCready had let a detail or two slip over the course of their friendship. “Capital Wasteland, yeah, but not as far back as Little Lamplight. My… my son. My family. I had a wife and son, and I… Darn, I don’t know where to start.”

Hancock waved a hand. “Hey, now. Let’s go back. What’s at Med-Tek? Start there if that’s easier.”

“Medicine. For my son.” MacCready bit back a pained expression, but it was no use. It all spilled out then. The sudden fever that left him wheezing and trembling in bed. The painful boils that bloomed blue like bruises on every soft stretch of skin. The cloud in his eyes, the weakness of his voice. MacCready laid it all out, and somewhere along the way, stopped recounting the illness. He wasn’t sure when the story had subsided into begging. Wasn’t sure when he’d started tearing up. But before long he’d laid everything on the table, anything and everything he would do if they would just please, god, _please_ help him get this medicine for his son!

MacCready wiped his eyes when he’d run out of pleas. He watched as Fitz did the same, dabbing a stripe of saline dripping down her cheek as if she was trying not to wipe away her non-existent makeup. And Hancock, he just watched, jaw set with determination and eyes far away in that way he had where you could practically feel him absorbing the pain right off of you, taking in every ounce of your experience with the empathy of a saint.

“Oh my god, MacCready,” Nora Fitzpatrick said. She stood from the bed and made it to him in two long strides. Her arms wrapped around him, and held his head to her chest like a child. “It’s alright. We’ll help, of course we’ll help. I’d go to the end of the earth and back to help, you know that.”

Yeah. He did know that. Just like three of them would do for Fitz’s son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyeyyy, took me a while, but here's another chapter! Kudos, comments, critiques, and any forms of interaction at all whatsoever give me life and are extremely appreciated.


	4. The Long Road Behind Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready is about to get married, and he can't wrap his head around how he got so lucky. So, he's thinking back to the mission into Med-Tek Research and reminiscing on the time when he realized he was in love with Hancock and Nora.

Scrapes, bruises. They played them off.

Sprains, a concussion. Harder to make light of.

Hancock lost a lot of blood. They stopped their progress through the old medical research facility to hunker down and hide in an examination room a while, sinking stimpak after stimpak into his arms until his body finally got the memo to close that crap up.

Times like this, MacCready was glad for his rough life. It meant he knew how to stitch up Hancock’s bad gash for the most part, how to keep Nora Fitzpatrick conscious and responsive until they could fix her up, too. It meant he knew how to swallow his fear and guilt and pain and focus on the goal.

This was about survival. Keeping Hancock and Fitz and Duncan alive. Staying alive himself. Everything was about surviving it. And these folks, well, they were bound and determined not to, MacCready often thought. Between some of them going head-first into raider dens at the behest of cowardly settlers, and others getting ill with rare and horrible infections, between idiocy and sheer bad luck, he counted his blessings any of them had even made it this far.

But until death caught ‘em, they’d put up a hell of fight, for themselves and each other.

_Hold on, Duncan._

MacCready took one last look at the wound on Hancock’s stomach, gave it an approving nod as if it was a child who finally decided to behave, and slapped some gauze and medical tape over it. Fitz was doing better, too, after just one stimpak and some time to rest. “We should be nearly there,” he said as he pulled got a good handful of Hancock’s shirt and pulled it back over his exposed skin, even though he knew darn well the mayor didn’t need any help. He just liked the feeling of moving the clothes on him, of controlling Hancock’s state of dress - whatever, it wasn't gonna go anywhere, may as well enjoy the good bits in between all the bad crap going on.

Nora put her gas mask back on, pulling the straps on the side to secure it tight over her face. “The ferals will eventually sniff us out if we stay in place for too long. So as soon as you guys are ready, I say we push to the end. They’re getting tougher, though, so we can can probably expect some high rads in the area. Pop a Rad-X just in case.”

Sometimes, like right then, she talked like she knew the wasteland, knew the threats, knew the rules. Sometimes, when she hid her face behind a gas mask and you couldn’t tell she was a cartoon mascot for cotton candy, she seemed like she was born and raised here. Then, other times, you’d look in her eyes and know that her of all people going from pre-War to now was a serious joke of fate. There was no one worse suited, not to mention no one less deserving. Her case of Old World Blues was textbook, and extraordinarily justifiable.

“I think I’ll manage the rads just fine,” Hancock chortled. “But you kids should definitely do that. Neither of you could pull off my complexion, anyway.”

MacCready and Nora swallowed pills down, checked ammo, took this chance to gather themselves and figure out some kind of strategy before moving forward. MacCready was the best shot from the back, and Hancock handled himself best at the vanguard with his shotgun and combat knife; Nora was better long-range than close, but had the best eyes. She noticed ghouls before anyone else, and a quick tap on her Pip Boy could help her make sense of their surroundings. She walked in the front, or side-by-side with Hancock, and stepped back to let Hancock take the front lines whenever a fight broke out.

MacCready being furthest back from the action meant he was usually the one without pressing danger. It meant that if anyone had the luxury of swinging their gun back and freeing their hands to administer a stimpak, it was him. It meant he had a good view of the battlefield, and could see when one of the others was in danger, or about to be overrun, he could intervene. He could shoot out a charging ghoul’s legs from beneath it, he could control a crowd from afar, he could shoot down an air duct and make them disperse.

He had control.

It was a precious, precious thing, and about the only thing that made him confident again after their earlier injuries. Things got messy upstairs, a bit too close for comfort, but in this scene, with the high ground over the multi-leveled cell blocks and Nora slipping into a control room to set the nearby Protectrons into a hellish frenzy, things were turning around quick.

A dozen ghouls? No, more than that. And then even more. They kept pouring out of the cells, only to be zapped by Protections, blasted into bits by Hancock, or sniped down from afar by MacCready.

 _They_ had control.

And MacCready felt stupid for thinking earlier about death. About how stupid his companions were.

If anyone could make it through, it was the three of them. They had each other’s backs in a way MacCready hadn’t ever gotten with anyone else before. They used their strengths, they relied on each other, they filled in the gaps in each other’s armor. And, MacCready liked to think, he filled that role best of all.

Protect from afar. Fix up their wounds. Know when a place was safe to rest. Smell the acid rain in the air and know where to take cover before it hit. He had more experience in the most dangerous parts of the wasteland than either of his companions, and he made sure to put it to good use. Not just for his own survival, but theirs.

Confident. Proud. Part of a team again, but a million times more satisfying than the Gunners.

And when the shots died, and no more rotting corpses came crawling out from wreckage and rebar, MacCready looked down to the bottom of the cellblock where Hancock barked a satisfied laugh and waved him down.

“All clear! And hey, good shootin’! Fuckers didn’t stand a chance!”

“That went a lot smoother than our last fight,” Nora said as she slipped out from the control booth. A couple ghouls lay where she’d been standing. Despite the close quarters she’d been caught in, she looked unharmed and sounded relatively calm. “Anybody need a stimpak before we move on?”

“I think I opened something back up in my excitement, now that you mention it. We got any more?”

“We’re in a medical building. I’ve been grabbing stims out of every cupboard and drawer for the last few hours,” she said. “We should be good for a while. And I want to use ‘em if we’ve got ‘em.”

“Better than bleeding out because you think you’re tough,” MacCready agreed.

And it was a darn good thing they did. Because by the time they made it out of the cell blocks, and all the way to the sub-level research laboratory, they needed every ounce of energy - and blood - they could get.

This time, they felt a little less in control.

This time, there was a little more shouting, a few more missed shots, confusion as the ghouls kept coming but no one could tell from where. And, worst of all, a glowing monstrosity waiting for them at the laboratory doors, skin swollen and expanded by radiation-grown tumors, whole body misshapen and rotting, only held together by tendons and joints that calcified into place and refused to decompose with the rest of it.

Goddamn, but some ghouls could be real, _real_ ugly.

Hancock ended up in the lab with it. Even in these dire straights, MacCready saw through the glass panels from the outside how he was always keeping his aim upward, keeping stray buckshot to the ceiling rather than any important bottles or crates or equipment that could house the cure they were here for.

So MacCready played backup. His sniper rifle shattered the air, shot after shot, raising the dead who hadn’t yet shown up for the party and making his ears ring. His aim was at, and through, the glass. It was good stuff, too, tempered so that his bullets made perfect little holes rather than shattering the entire panes, so he could still see inside and aim his next shot without having to go inside.

Nora was waist-deep in ghouls, but if she was overwhelmed, it would be by sheer number rather than any single monster’s singular threat. MacCready trusted her to take care of herself this time - and when he heard the sound of a spring-loaded syringe snap, he knew she had the rest just fine. No one really liked when their sweet little Miss Fitz took Psycho, but if it works it works, and with more shambling zombies wriggling out from vents and wherever-the-eff-else, no one was about to blame her.

Fights always feel like they last longer than they do. Time stretches out. Adrenaline kicks in, nature’s Jet, and you feel everything move in slow motion, like the moment when you trip and fall and just watch as the ground gets closer.

A barrage of buckshot put the big ghoul’s face all kinds of wrong, just in the same moment that a .45 caliber round punched a perfect hole in the glass of the lab and slid straight through that same ghoul’s skull.

All downhill from there. MacCready and Hancock cleared out the rest of the ghouls on the outside of the lab, not that Nora needed much help with them. She was shaking and overstimulated, but the pile of bodies she’d built up around her had kept most of the fresher ghouls at bay and at a distance, so she hadn’t gotten more than a couple hard hits.

They waited outside the lab for a few minutes when the last ghoul fell. Hancock got his heart rate down with a pull of Jet, while Fitz stomp-paced irritably while she waited for the Psycho to wear off. She pulled off her gas mask and poured some cold water out of her canteen to wash the sweat from her face and the foam from her mouth.

And MacCready used that time to sit against the wall outside the lab, eyes closed, fists clenched, somewhere between elation at getting further than he’d ever gotten before, and absolute terror. This was either going to be one of the happiest days of his life, second only to Duncan’s birth, or one of the darkest days of his life, inevitably to be eclipsed by the day he returned to the Capital wasteland to be with his son while he died, to bury Duncan like he’d never gotten to bury Lucy…

The cure was either in there, or it wasn’t. He was sure it was. He was told it was. But when had life ever been kind to him before? When had it ever worked out so easily?

He looked in turn at Hancock and Nora, and he knew the answer.

_Ever since he met them._

Miss Fitz poured some more water over her face and hair and gave her whole head a shake like Dogmeat after a bath. “Okay… Okay, I think I’m good. Are you boys good?”

“Yeah,” MacCready said, and he tried real hard to mean it. “Ready when you are.”

The lab was a bit torn up, as places full of delicate and priceless scientific equipment tend to be post gunfight. But thanks to Hancock’s relative care in how he dealt with that,and the precision of MacCready’s shots, most of the damage had been at the hands of the glowing ghoul. It could have been worse.

A small metal crate sat surrounded by broken crystal beakers. It was refrigerated, with a small atomic battery on the back of it and little engine still whirring away through the dust that’d settled into the fan and mesh. Fitz used a hairpin to open it up. And for a moment, all three stood around the countertop with bated breath.

Inside, a red plastic cartridge sat, pristine. It had a removable cap concealing an injection needle no longer than a thumb tack. Along its red body, a Med-Tek logo and name identified the medicine

Prevent.

Well, it was too late to prevent anything but death, MacCready thought, but better late than never.

“We… we gotta get this to Daisy. Get it sent with the next caravan to the Capital,” he said. 

Neither Hancock or Nora said anything about the strangled sound of his voice, the wetness of his eyes, or the sniffles he held back as he tucked the medicine into a pouch on his holster. They didn’t have to.

Hancock took the lead on the way out. Fitz, instead of walking in front or beside the good mayor, stayed back with MacCready. She held him the whole way, her arm looped around his ribs. When he leaned into her, even tucked his head in the crook of her neck, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t coo or try to calm him when he started to cry.

“They’re happy tears,” she said. “You’ve earned them.”

~~~

They got back in formation when they made it to the city. MacCready didn’t mind. He got it all out before they’d even left the facility, and it meant that he was where he liked to be, in the very back, where he could keep an eye on Hancock and Nora and a feeling of control over the environment. Anywhere they walked could be a battlefield, after all.

And, besides, walking behind Hancock and Nora meant having a view of them both, and not just in the practical sense. Hancock’s coat hid most the shape of his body, but the way he swayed and swaggered as he walked was fun to watch, and left something to the imagination of what his hips were doing. And Nora, by contrast, left very little to be imagined with that vault suit of hers, but MacCready wouldn’t be caught complaining. The harness across her hips, buckled to the guards on her thighs, made a perfect frame. Like a picture.

It only took about three hours to get back to Goodneighbor. Good time, too, considering the streets that were too covered in debris to go through, or when they needed to slow down and move carefully to avoid a fight they knew they wouldn’t win. With Hancock still not in the best shape, they stopped a time or two to rest.

Pre-dawn turned the black sky just barely blue when they made it into town and closed the gate behind them. Nevermind that there was no way there’d be a caravan leaving at that hour, or that Daisy was most definitely sleeping, they went directly to her shop. MacCready was the least concerned about showing himself up the stairs to her living space, shaking her awake, and passing off the precious cargo to her.

She blinked her black eyes, confused at first, ready to give him a bullet to the face and call the neighborhood watch at the same moment, when she realized who it was and what he was saying and what he was pushing into her hands even as she laid in bed.

“We found it, Dais, we got it!” He was gonna start crying again, he could feel it. And Daisy’s smile as she sat up in bed and pulled him into a hug, oh, that didn’t help one bit. Yeah, he was crying again. “My little boy can still make it. My little boy can still live!”

“I know, honey, I know.” She rubbed her hands on his back. “I’ll get this going to the Capital first thing tomorrow morning. You get some sleep, MacCready, you look like shit.”

Exhausted, bruised, battered - Hancock was leaning hard on the doorframe of Daisy’s bedroom, holding where he’d gotten torn open a whole five hours ago - yeah, they didn’t need to be told twice to get some effing sleep. They ambled their way to the Old State House, and MacCready almost split from them there to head down to the Third Rail to pass out in the VIP room. They never gave him the chance. As soon as MacCready even started to turn to continue walking down the avenue, Hancock grabbed him firmly by the collar and pulled him along into the State House behind Nora, all the way up the stairs to the mayor’s private bedroom. And honestly, by the time they made it to the top, MacCready was out like a light.

He woke up hours later in a pile with his companions on the mayor’s bed, fully clothed, only their weapons pulled off and left strewn on the floor.

Nora Fitzpatrick had her legs sprawled over him, the rest of her laid out face-down diagonally across the bed. Hancock laid beside MacCready, snuggled up close against his side.

The former Gunner turned his head around the room. Dust moved slowly through the air, caught in the afternoon sun streaming in through the windows.

They’d slept the whole day away. His whole body ached. His head hurt from crying, and his eyes were full of sand and sticky. He had a million little injuries all buzzing at once across every inch of his skin.

And he felt light as frikkin' a feather.

He hugged Hancock a little bit closer, and felt him stir in his embrace.

“Mnnm. What time is it?” Hancock drawled.

“If I had to guess? Five in the evening.”

“Well, shit. Not gonna lie, I could sleep a whole ‘nother day or two if you let me.”

“I could sleep another two hundred years,” Nora wheezed into the mattress.

MacCready chuckled. “How long you been awake, boss?”

“I don’t know. Half an hour? I didn’t wanna move. Med-Tek took it out of me.”

The arm that wasn’t wrapped around Hancock dipped down to give Nora’s legs an affectionate squeeze. “Oh you’ve been through worse, General. Always out and about, fighting raiders and super mutants.”

“We can’t all be young and spry like you, kiddo,” Hancock grumbled.

“Yeah, well…” MacCready closed his eyes, appreciating the feel of his two companions in his arm, under his hand, against his body. He remembered when he thought it wasn’t worth it to keep going. When he held Duncan in his arms and wondered if they’d be better off… He remembered the feeling of emptiness at his better times, and wishing he could emptier at the worst times. He’d come close, some nights. Close to giving up.

Duncan still had a chance.

And so did he, he thought, giving Hancock and Fitz a squeeze each.

~~~

They were in love. It made sense. They were both such good people, the kind of good that drove MacCready nuts sometimes. Taking care of people, putting themselves in danger, making commitments to people who couldn’t compensate them what they were worth even if they wanted to.

They were in love. _They_ made sense.

MacCready knew Nora loved Hancock because Nora was Nora. She adored the guy, and she didn’t do anything to hide it.

As for Hancock, the ghoul was a flirt, so it was hard to tell how bad he had it. The next day, when they finally had enough sleeping and laying around and recovering and enjoying lazy celebration of a cure found and delivered, MacCready went with him to the Rexford to talk to Fred Allen about a special concoction.

And then the meeting started. MacCready felt like he was, if anything, standing in for Fahrenheit; just standing behind the mayor, arms crossed, rifle on his back for all to see, not that Hancock needed to put on any airs for the likes of Fred Allen. He kept back though, not wanting to butt in, and figuring this had nothing to do with his interests anyway. Chems were, by and large, not MacCready’s thing.

He perked up when he heard Nora’s name though.

“Yeah, she’s had a tough time, getting used to life out here,” Hancock was saying. “She used to take Jet when she needed it, but her other pals ain’t so understanding. Sunshine handled herself well at Med-Tek, but I think that’s mostly because she had so much backup, and we took it real slow. Even then, when it got down to the wire, she used Psycho to get through it. I just… don’t like that every day is a gamble for you, ya know? Whether or not she can make it through? So, I’m thinking something like a low-dosage Calmex, but pill form so the high-and-mighty of her entourage don’t get judgy when they see her stickin’ needles. What’d’ya think?”

“We’re here for Fitz?” MacCready chirped.

Hancock flashed a smile over his shoulder at MacCready. It was maybe meant to be casual, or like he was playing it off. “Christmas present,” Hancock said.

It was supposed to sound like it was no big deal. But there was something there. Something in his eyes, maybe some slight strain in his voice that gave it away.

Hancock loved her. Making a custom chem for her, to quiet her anxiety, to help her through her traumas, it was his chance to save her the way she saved everyone else.

Holy sh--shoot. Hancock was really, really in love.

It occurred to MacCready then that maybe he ought to be jealous. That both the people who gave him hope for the future, renewed his faith and confidence in himself, helped to save his son’s life, had chosen each other, and maybe he should take that poorly.

But… it just made sense. And they deserved each other. And as long as Duncan was safe, and MacCready still had them both as much as he’d ever had them before, well, even if he was supposed to be jealous, the feeling just never hit him. He waited for it to strike, a sudden pang of betrayal or hurt, and it never did. 

Hancock excused himself to some mayoral business after his meeting with Fred Allen, so MacCready went to the Third Rail, and met up with Nora for a few drinks. Hancock joined up with them in time to see Magnolia’s set for the evening, and they had a few more drinks.

And a few more.

Soon, they were dancing. It was a good thing, too. Hancock and Nora were good at it.

“Ya know,” Hancock purred into MacCready’s ear during one of Magnolia’s spicier numbers, “I love being on the road, shootin’ up baddies, servin’ the people, but I sure miss Goodneighbor.”

“We should come back here more often,” MacCready agreed. He tried not to think too much about Hancock’s hips moving on his. Tried not to get too excited when Nora moved over and joined them on the dance floor, swaying with them, and he suddenly had both of them drunkenly moving against him, and _he_ was drunkenly moving against _them_ , and-- He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to relax. Let loose. We don’t party like this in Sanctuary.”

“We could,” Fitz said.

God damn, this wasn’t the sort of dance you were supposed to do with three people, but MacCready did not mind for one single moment being in the middle. 

“Listen, Sunshine, I know you worked hard on Sanctuary, but you gotta give me this. My town’s got yours beat when it comes to debauchery and good times.”

 _Damn right, Hancock,_ MacCready thought, savoring the feeling of two bodies swaying just barely out of time from the music against his front and back sides, _damn right._

And no one said anything about who loved who, but they all toasted - several times - to Duncan and a long road come to a joyous end.

They were a mess by the time they passed out together in the VIP room. MacCready didn’t even remember when the party ended, he just woke up in a pile once again, this time all awkwardly stacked on each other on the couch against the wall with pounding headaches and a few new bruises each from taking tumbles on the dance floor before someone, probably Ham or Whitechapel, dragged them out of the bar proper.

These days of celebration were the lightest, freest of MacCready’s life. Duncan was gonna be okay. Hancock and Nora loved each other, and MacCready loved them both, and whatever this was, whatever he was to them, he felt welcome and cared for and happy.

And for the first time in a long, long time, everything just felt _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreading, what the fuck is proofreading? Also, hi, sorry for the months on end it took me to post a new chapter, whoops.
> 
> Apparently my interpretation of MacCready is that he cries, like, a lot. I regret nothing.
> 
> Anyway, any comments, critiques, kudos, and basically any interaction in general is super appreciated and keeps my heart fed through the winter. Thank you to everybody who's left kudos and comments before!


	5. Those Three Magic Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready is about to get married to Hancock and Nora Fitzpatrick, and he can't wrap his head around how this whole relationship even happened at all. So, he's thinking back to the moment when he finally came right out and told them how he felt.

It was amazing how fast time passed. It really does fly when you’re… well, happy.

MacCready and Hancock joined on to Nora’s a few weeks apart, but as the months rolled by, it all just blended together until MacCready couldn’t, or didn’t care to remember a time when it wasn’t the three of them, thick as thieves. By the time Christmas came, they’d all three been traveling together about eight months. It was long enough to know he didn’t want it any other way.

Christmas clicked something in her head, though, and she was chomping at the bit the moment her Pipboy clock ticked to December to make the holidays count. Everyone, all her friends she’d made across the Commonwealth, were invited to her home in Diamond City, and she made such a big deal over it that no one would dare decline. Now with about a week to go before the festivities, she had a house to gussy up and a feast to plan.

Hancock was finishing up some business in Goodneighbor, including testing the final product concocted by Fred Allen for Fitz’s gift, which left MacCready there to help her decorate for the holiday.

At first, MacCready almost groaned out loud when she casually mentioned how much money she was expecting to spend on food, almost complained at how much more they could be making if they got back out there and got back to work. Instead, he asked, “What’s the point of all this, anyway?” And it was just earnest enough to win him a real answer.

She stopped singing and scouring the old stove in the corner, a breath leaving her like she’d just been punched in the ribs. MacCready couldn’t see her face from this angle, and was instantly, acutely aware that he ought to be thankful for that.

“I already had all of Shaun’s first Christmas planned when the bombs dropped. Where he’d get his portraits taken, the outfit he’d wear; it was green, so his little itty-bitty body would still be distinguishable from the Santa holding him. I had all the presents bought, for him and Nate. I’ve always been really into holidays, but Christmas was supposed to be _special._ ” The words all came out so easily, so quickly, like the whole thing had run through her head many, many times before now, like she couldn’t drown out the memories no matter how loud she sang those stupid Christmas carols.

MacCready’s heart ached as she went on; he knew that spiral of getting caught up in guilty thoughts and what-ifs.

Nora ran her hands through her bouncy brown hair, leaving streaks of grease from the stovetop on her hands, but she didn’t seem to notice, or mind. “But instead, the world ended, and I lost everything. I lost more than I ever imagined I had to lose. I didn’t realize it could hurt worse than dying myself, but it _was_ , Mac. I wished I’d died instead. And when Christmas came, it was just me and Preston and five other survivors in Sanctuary, and I spent the whole day crying in what used to be our house. So I guess I just… I guess I just feel like I’m owed a good Christmas this year. I think I really need it.”

“Yeah.” MacCready’s voice came out weak. He tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, tried to ignore the sour taste in his mouth, but there was no fighting the physical symptoms he’d come to know so well.

Lucy would have loved to come to Christmas dinner at Fitz’s. They would have had so much to talk about. She even would have loved Nora’s stupid aluminum tree.

“When you put it like that, it sounds like a real good idea, boss.”

~~~

Five days to Christmas, the next guest arrived. MacCready swore he went into the kitchen for just a minute, came back, and there was the newcomer, sitting on the couch like he’d been there for hours. Heck, maybe he had been.

MacCready didn’t know how Nora knew this Deacon fellow, and neither of them ever talked about it. This guy talked circles around anything even as simple as, “And how do you know Nora?” He wore sunglasses indoors, and just laughed off MacCready’s mounting discomfort as the mystery went on and on without being solved.

And something about him bugged the heck out of MacCready, put his teeth on edge and made his finger twitch toward the gun that wasn’t on his back like usual. Every time he opened his mouth, that weird accent struck MacCready with a disconcerting recognition. That cadence was unmistakably familiar, but too unique to be anything local. Every word he said scratched something on the inside of his brain.

It was driving MacCready nuts.

While Deacon could avoid answering a question completely, Nora was quick and direct in squashing the subject when MacCready pulled her to the living room later in the evening. “I can’t tell you that, MacCready, and you shouldn’t ask.”

“When you go off without me or Hancock, is he who you’re with? Come on, boss, I just need to know who he is, I gotta know I can trust him.” He leaned forward on the couch, setting his elbows against his knees as he looked up at Nora beside him.

Her nose wrinkled, legs crossed, defensive as her posture could get. “I can’t, MacCready.”

“And why not, huh?”

Her back straightened, a firmness coming to her features. She could not be swayed. “We both signed a mutual NDA.”

“You’re f- _freaking_ kidding me.” Of course they did. Of course. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Contract is solid, MacCready,” Deacon announced from the hall. He leaned against the corner, looking into the living room like he’d heard the whole thing, because, yeah, he probably had. “If she breaks her end, she’s agreed to give me more boxes of Blamco Mac-n-Cheese than I think actually exist on the east coast. Also, I get her house in Sanctuary. _Casa del Deacon._ ”

Nora cleared her throat, and her stubborn facade crumbled with embarrassment. “You know I would never put such silly conditions in an actual contract if I ever thought I’d break it. And, truth be told, the real cost of breaking it is… not something we needed to put on paper. The stakes are high enough, separate from any absurd promises of Mac-n-Cheese, and we both would pay the price if either of us talked.”

“I don’t know how you think this is making me feel any better,” MacCready huffed.

“It doesn’t have to,” Nora said. “All you need to know is that Deacon’s chosen to trust me with his life, and I intend to prove his judgment of me correct.”

And that was mostly the end of it. The following days, they never spoke of who he was or how he knew Nora, or anything really meaningful at all, despite all the warning bells ringing like tinnitus in MacCready’s ears.

But he liked jokes, even MacCready’s really dumb ones, and had some particularly fun observations about the Commonwealth himself. He got around as much as MacCready had, from the sounds of it. They talked travel, when they talked at all; never any details about what they were up to in those places, just the act of being there at all.

“You think the wildlife is bad here, you should see the Capital Wasteland,” Deacon said the next evening, running the side of his fork over his already-clean plate to scrape up the very last morsels stuck to Nora’s ancient porcelain china. “Ever seen a centaur? Those things are what nightmares are made of.”

MacCready may as well have been struck by lightning.

“That’s where I knew your voice from!” MacCready said, sitting straight up and slamming his hands on the table hard enough to send his own cutlery clattering to the floor. Beside him, Nora yelped and jumped in her seat with a start.

“Huh? Did I say Capital Wasteland? I meant New York. The Big Apple is crammed _full_ of centaurs. _Nnnn_ o, I think you must’ve seen me around Goodneighbor, if you know me from anywhere--”

“I saw you in the outfitters on and off while I was doing odd jobs in Underworld. You’re friends with Tulip, right?” MacCready snapped his fingers. “I guess I must’ve remembered your face all wrong, it’s the weirdest thing, but I _knew_ I recognized your voice!”

For a moment, Deacon sat a little straighter, his face caught between a dozen different emotions. Half-smile, a little shell-shocked, as if simply being remembered at all was some kind of novel experience for him. Then, with a low laugh and a shrug -- why did he look like he lost a bet or something? -- he said, “What were you doing in Underworld?” Not confirming or denying, he played lawyer like there wasn’t already one in the room.

“Same thing I figured you were doing there, helping get them supplies and info from places not-so-ghoul-friendly. Always sounded like you were moving merchandise for Tulip.”

“Yeah, more or less,” Deacon said, finally admitting it, almost helplessly. “That Tulip, she’s a good egg.”

“If you ever end up going back to the capital and want a guide for the trip, let me know. I know the way like the back of my hand. Be there and back to Boston in less than two weeks.” He winked. “For a fee.”

Deacon tapped his fingers against the edge of the table, drumming out a pleasant little rhythm while the suggestion sank in. “Matter of fact,” he began slowly, “I have a few friends who make frequent trips. Reliable escorts are hard to come by, and our little Wanderer here _has_ given you pretty glowing reviews.” He paused and flashed Nora a wide, easy smile. “You wouldn’t mind if I borrowed your sniper for a spell, right? I’d bring him back in one piece, probably.”

Her eyes got all soft like they do, as if she was -- _moved?_ \-- that he was considering doing some simple merc work for Deacon. As if it meant something more, something more significant or important than a few extra caps to line the pockets. A sudden increase in the gravity in the room had MacCready shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“No, absolutely,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “I think that’d be a really good idea. And you know already Hancock would be in favor.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Deacon said, and he made a sort of mock salute. “I’ll need to clear it with my superiors; they get antsy when I bring somebody new into the mix.”

And MacCready, he just nodded dumbly, wondering what the heck he wasn’t being let in on, what number of secrets Deacon and Nora had, and how many of those were about to be answered.

~~~

The rest of the gang slowly drifted in in the week leading up to Christmas. Some stayed at Home Base with Nora and Deacon and MacCready, while others crashed with Nick or Piper or got themselves a room at the Dugout. Pretty soon, it felt like the whole city was swarming with Nora’s extended entourage.

Hancock rolled into town late two days before Christmas, when it was easiest to dodge security. Too excited to wait, he pulled MacCready aside almost the minute he walked in the door. Barely off the threshold, he glanced up the stairs and around the dining area to make sure Nora wasn’t near before making the grand reveal. Tucked in his pocket was the box he picked up from Fred Allen, Sunshine scrawled in hardly-legible lettering across the peeled cardboard lid. This was it, the gift of the century. The gift that was stressing Hancock out of what was left of his skin.

“Don’t worry about it, Hancock. It’s gonna be fine,” MacCready promised him quietly, leaning in close enough to whisper into the exposed cartilage of the good mayor’s ear.

“Yeah, I think so. Shit, I just got so much to say to her, ya know? How the fuck do I air it all out now, when I’ve been sitting on it forever? And, _fuck_ , what if I’m _wrong_?”

“Hey, I know you both better than anyone else in the Commonwealth. And believe me, if anyone has a place in her heart, it’s gotta be you.” He’d been watching them making longing sighs and heart-eyes at each other for months. Really. It was more obvious than when Eclair and Hubert had crushes on each other, scrawling hearts and initials on the walls and everyone else the whole darn cave knew before each other.

Hancock clapped his hand over MacCready’s bicep, leaning against him just briefly to smack a nearly-lipless kiss against MacCready’s cheek, and stepped past him for the stairs. And damn, MacCready could feel Hancock’s heart pounding through that frocked coat, poor ghoul. 

He blew a sigh as Hancock departed, shaking his head briefly.

“I’ve gotta say, the signals are seven kinds of mixed over here.” Sitting under the stairs, looking through the wooden slats with those mirror-lense sunglasses, Deacon bent forward so that his coy grin could be visible in the gap between steps. “So, am I missing something, or is this what it looks like?”

“Don’t you ever get sick of sneaking around and listening in on sh -- ugh, _stuff_?” Every time he did that, MacCready felt himself get just a little bit jumpier. Any more of this, and he’d be bouncing against the tin roof.

Deacon laughed, lighthearted but quiet. It didn’t seem to carry, like he could have been laughing down an empty tunnel and gotten no echo back. Like he mastered the art of being so completely inconspicuous, the world itself wasn’t quite sure he was there. “Look, it’s not malicious. But other people's business is my business. As in, my trade. You always hear it’s a bad habit, taking work home with you, but I guess you could say I’m married to the job.”

“I really don’t care why you do it. And whatever you’re getting at, you can get off of.”

“Uh-huh.” He stepped back from the stairs, and MacCready could see just enough of him to know he was shrugging. “If you ever need advice regarding Wanderer-et-Mayor, I happen to know a thing or two about them and how they operate. Stuff a friend too far on the inside may not notice.”

MacCready didn’t answer. He told himself it was because Deacon could go eff-himself, and he didn’t owe the creep a response, but honestly, anything he might have said choked before it could come out.

~~~

Nora’s full entourage had convened at Home Base on Christmas Day and gift-exchanging was ready to begin in earnest.

Hancock managed to get the box of Sunshine into Nora’s hands just after breakfast, and though he had that panicked-animal look about it earlier, he looked a lot better after his mid-morning chem break. MacCready would ask him about it later, but considering Hancock and Nora’s obvious glances at each other, it would seem that the gift was well-received.

MacCready sat with his arm draped over Fitz’s chair. Hancock went for the crappy aluminum tree and started passing out his gifts, eager as Santa Claus if Santa’s skin melted off and he was into hard drugs.

It was a weird scene, a bunch of adults set around a tree and tearing into gifts the way old films made it sound like was just for children. But enthusiasm burst as soon as the first present was ripped of its old newspaper wrapping; regardless of age, it’s impossible not to feel some kind of holiday cheer when Piper lifts a box of steel printing sorts into the air and screams like she’s being murdered, “Oh my god, Blue, oh my god!!”

Hancock handed MacCready his gift last so he could sit down on Fitz’s other side and see him open it. His arm looped around Fitz as well, over top of MacCready’s, and he leaned forward so that he could watch with intent black eyes. “Alright kiddo, you better lose your shit, or I’m gonna think I don’t know you.”

The paper, some old advertisement that MacCready recognized from the walls around the historic red light district, was only loosely wrapped around the small parcel. MacCready rolled it free to reveal the perfect plastic rectangle within, long with a wide lense at the front. “Holy sh-- Hancock?”

“Custom, I got Kleo to make it for ya,” Hancock said, reaching across Nora with his free arm to turn the lens upward while she _ooh_ and ed. “Night vision, heat vision, target tracking; if a motherfucker’s alive, they ain’t hiding from you.”

“Wow, this is… Hancock, this is crazy. I’ve never had anything so high tech!”

“Heh, only the best for you, babe,” Hancock said, and his arm that went back behind Nora’s seat gave him an affectionate rub. “You gotta get some kind of perk for running with an elected official.”

“I thought the perk was getting to star in all your sordid scandals?” MacCready laughed.

He almost missed it when Hancock chuckled, just a little too quietly, “I fuckin’ wish.”

He also nearly missed it when Nora made a face -- what the heck kind of face was that, something like a smirk and a blush and scandalized shock all at once -- and smacked Hancock in the chest with the back of her hand.

Against MacCready’s better judgment, he looked across the room to Deacon, who gave a sort of gesture like he was presenting the prize behind door-number-three.

“Hey, since I’ve got you,” MacCready said, and he reached into the pocket of his coat. His gifts to his favorite friends didn’t feel right left under the tree with the rest. “It’s not much, but I wanted you to have this.”

‘Wasn’t much,’ felt like an understatement, with the gorgeous scope still in his other hand. Between this and the chems he made for Fitz, Hancock had undoubtedly won at the gift exchange game.

MacCready took a steadying breath. No, it wasn’t much, but it was all MacCready had to even begin to express how much Hancock meant to him. He pushed the holotape into Hancock’s hands, anxious as if it were a live grenade. “It’s, uh -- really not much, just a few songs Mags let me copy the recordings of. Diamond City Radio doesn’t have her whole set, you know, and Fitz’s Pip-Boy doesn’t always get good reception.”

“Hey, now, Pip-Buddy works hard for us!” Nora interjected, hurt on her Pip-Boy’s unfeeling behalf.

“Awe, MacCready,” Hancock said, and MacCready couldn’t tell if his eyes were fogging up with tears, or if that was just the lingering effects of the mentats and moonshine he’d taken with his coffee this morning. “That’s real sweet of ya. And now, I have an excuse to make you two dance with me no matter where we’re holed up.”

“Heh, yeah, that’s, uh, that’s the idea,” MacCready said, quickly rubbing his face to disperse the sudden heat that gathered in his cheeks. He could _feel_ his skin turning red, at embarrassment at his comparatively small gift, or at the look in Hancock’s eyes, or the way Nora was already chirping excitedly at the thought of hearing _”their song”_ on the road, or maybe just everything all at once.

“Can’t wait to listen to it with ya. Thank you, MacCready.” And he leaned across Nora’s lap to give him that familiar quick kiss on the cheek.

His body temperature spiked again. Any more, and Curie would be showing herself over and seeing to his inexplicable fever. “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

As Hancock leaned away, MacCready breathed a hot sigh through his teeth. There was so much more he could have said. About feelings, and about what Hancock meant to him; about feeling like he had a place, a home, for the first time since Lucy died. But it was so hard to get into that sappy crap when Hancock was just so cool, so in-control of his own feelings.

Too much to say.

It was frustrating, but easier when all was said and done to leave it unsaid. Of course, that meant Fitz would not be so easy, since her gift required explaining all those very things. He steeled himself for an inevitably soggy exchange.

“Boss--” he started. Already, he needed to clear his throat. Shoot. This was going to be rough. Why couldn’t he just get her a box of ammo, again? “Hey, maybe we should step away for a minute. That alright?”

There were a lot of gifts that people needed to exchange separate from the rest of the party. Hancock did it this morning, Preston mentioned a special old Minuteman medal he scrounged up that he wanted to give her in private, and a few others in the gang made it sound like their presents were of the personal, sentimental nature. This wouldn’t be too weird, he tried to assure himself as they excused themselves from the living room to the dining area on the other side of Home Base.

“The other day, when we were talking about Christmas, it, uh, helped me decide what to give you. Gosh, where do I start?” He cracked his knuckles nervously. “So… I always repay my debts, you know that. But after Med-Tek, and everything else you’ve ever done for me, I’ve always figured my debt to you was just too great to ever repay. How do you put a price on Duncan’s life? I guess now is the best chance I’m gonna get to try, though. Just, to show you how much everything you do means to me.”

His hands were shaking. God, he was scared numb, he couldn’t even feel it in his hands as he fished it out from an ammo pouch on his hip. And there she was, patient as always, big eyes and soft mouth, like a cartoon character in a kid’s television program about the meaning of friendship.

About six inches tall, carved from firm and heavy wood, splittered a bit toward the bottom, the soldier toy kept its paint and shape well for something that’d traveled so many miles rattling around with a bunch of 50 cal casings. He set it in her waiting hands, fingertips lingering on it as he considered, for the last of a hundred times, whether or not he could really give this up.

“I know a toy soldier seems like a weird way to repay you. But it’s really special to me.”

And shoot, that smile, that kind and loving and peaceful smile she had, he felt it more than he saw it, like being safely tucked into a warm bed. Like all the benevolence she was capable of -- a stupid, nonsensical amount, and didn’t MacCready know it -- was all directed toward him all at once.

“Thank you, MacCready,” she said softly, so quiet she was nearly mouthing it, as if she could hear all those thoughts that he hadn’t started into yet and didn’t want to interrupt him.

“Lucy gave it to me, a long time ago. Before we got married or had Duncan. I… don’t know how much I ever really told you about my wife Lucy. Probably as much as I ever told Lucy about myself, come to think of it. When we first met, I told her I was a soldier, and she made it for me. It was the best story I could come up with for myself at the time. I didn’t want to lose her, or make her afraid of me. There was enough to be afraid of, being young and alone in the Capital, without knowing you’re getting chummy with a guy who kills for caps. I never had the heart to tell her the truth, even after everything else we’d go through together. I guess I never shook the feeling that if she knew, she’d never trust me again. Knowing how to shoot because I was soldier meant I could protect her and our family; knowing how to shoot because I murder people for money, well… It’d change everything, and I knew it.”

He was holding it together well, all things considered, until the moment Fitz closed the space between them and pulled him into a hug. Her arms wrapped all the way around him, her face went into the crook of his neck, breathing him in and giving him the chance to bury his own face into her hair and the soft soapy smell of her.

Holding her while thinking about Lucy, it was too many good things, too many positive memories of two impossibly good people. Lucy’s sweet and innocent demeanor, Nora Fitzpatrick’s unyielding saintliness; he never deserved either of them, and _fuck_ he _knew_ it. She was a whole world apart from him, from a time and place and life that never should have characters like himself in it. And Lucy, too, wouldn’t have gone out alone with a mercenary.

Neither of these women knew better: Lucy, because MacCready deceived her into thinking he was better than he was; Nora, because she deceived herself into thinking everyone in this blown-to-hell world was better than they were.

At least, when it came to Fitz, it wasn’t his fault. She knew the real him from the first moment she walked into the Third Rail VIP room.

He wasn’t crying, not really, not yet, but it was definitely getting misty with his face in her hair. “It… it doesn’t matter,” he rasped unevenly. “She, uh, she died a few years back. You know that part.”

She leaned away, which meant MacCready couldn’t hide the red in his face or the water in his eyes. Her hand ran over his face, nails just barely scratching into the beard on his jaw. “I’m sorry for your loss. We’re getting through it.”

“We are,” MacCready agreed. “But, for a long time, I wondered if it was worth it to survive. If Duncan and I wouldn't have been better off dying there with her. Talking about Christmas the other day, it reminded me of that, and how that felt.”

“But you know that’s not true. No more than if Shaun and I died with Nate in One-Eleven.”

No, that was different, MacCready would have said if he thought for a minute she’d have let him get away with saying it. He bit his lips instead, bit back telling her that she was different from him in more ways than he could list.

“I just want you to know, I lost so much when I lost Lucy. I miss her so much. She was supportive, through everything, through anything. I always could lean on her, and she gave me more courage than I thought I had in me. And when I lost her, I was broken. Without her, I didn’t think I could do it anymore.” The waterworks were at it again. He blinked the tears back, determined to keep his crap together, even just this once. “But then I met you. You’ve seen the end of the world, and you’ve got whole settlements relying on you, a war with the Institute on your to-do list, and more on your shoulders than anyone in their right mind would take on. And you still took the time to help me, and save Duncan. You’re here for me, like Lucy was, like I never thought I’d ever have again. And you kept me going.”

Her hands felt cold when they went over his face again, across his cheeks like she was inviting him to cry and promising to wipe the evidence away. The soldier was tucked against her palm with her thumb, leaving her fingertips free to smooth away the lines on his face. “I’ll always be here for you.”

“You and Hancock, you’re the best friends I’ve ever had in my life. And I wanted some way for you to know that, and for you especially to know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me, when you have so many other problems.”

“I think we’re more than friends, now,” Nora said through a smile.

“I’ve -- never thought of us like that,” said the biggest liar in the whole world in that single moment, Robert Joseph MacCready.

“We’re a family,” Nora said, and MacCready felt his heart do a somersault in his chest.

Family. It was better and worse than he could have imagined, could have ever hoped for; that single sentence both dashed his hopes and gave him something far greater.

Before he’d recovered from the emotional whiplash, Fitz continued, “Never in my life before have I felt this. This… complete and unconditional trust. As long as we’re talking about late spouses, my Nate… I loved him, with all my heart, but he was a very pragmatic man, the sort who could make tough decisions without sentimentality even coming up in the equation. If he’d survived, he would have left me behind ages ago. I never would have had the chance to slow him down. So, having you here with me through everything, knowing you could leave any time you wanted--”

“Actually, I have very clear contractual obligations,” MacCready joked, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, defiant against the prickling of tears he still felt behind them. “Not that it matters. I’ve got your back for the long run. You don’t ever have to worry about that.”

And he meant it. God damn, did he mean it.

~~~

“If I was a sniper,” Deacon murmured, “I’d be… right there. Or… there! Or even…” he pointed further down the road, to a ridge where an overhang of rock would indeed provide a good short-range cover. “Right there. Hey, isn’t this fun?”

“Yeah, yeah,” MacCready said. “But the best spot around here is actually about a mile west of here. There’s a really good spot on a broken overpass, you can make it up there on a civic access ladder. Can’t see it when it’s this dark and this far away, but trust me, if there is a sniper with a good scope up there, they can see us.”

Deacon went silent, then wiggled in a little closer to the broken wall of the torn up building they made their camp in. About all that was left of it was this first story wall at the back of the house; the roof and most of the other walls were completely gone, leaving just a little bit of cover on one side and a thankfully flat foundation that was more comfortable than the rocks and shattered pavement surrounding them. “I don’t like how good you are at this game.”

On the other wide of the ruined house, a shape stirred. “Uhm, Killshot? Should we be here if it’s unsafe?”

MacCready almost flinched at the codename, a jarring reminder that this job was unlike any he’d done before. “Don’t you worry, J4. Despite all the good sniping spots around here, there’s no activity for miles. Even raiders don’t bother with this stretch, since there’s rarely anybody or coming or going. If anyone else is even within miles of us, they’ve got places to be and aren’t gonna waste their time bothering us.” He paused. “Also, last I checked, that spot on the overpass got a nest of radscorpions in it. We’re safe.”

In the end, they’d chosen the long way rather than the fast way. MacCready knew it just as well, and it meant safer travel for a traumatized synth who couldn’t handle when the bullets started flying. Deacon and MacCready would take the more direct road home, once the runaway was delivered to Underworld.

They’d only stop briefly to the ol’ homestead. Letters from home were promising, but MacCready wanted to see Duncan with his own two eyes.

J4 nodded uneasily, then rolled over to try and sleep once more.

“You wanna take first watch?” MacCready asked. Deacon didn’t like to sleep anyway, and he detested the feeling of vulnerability, that much MacCready had already learned. It was something they had in common. He was the paranoid sort, and always noticed when anything was even slightly out of place.

“You got it, Killsy. Hey, have you thought at all about what I said last night?”

“Which part? Because if you’re talking about that whole fake recall code stunt--”

“Heh, no, but you gotta admit, I got you good. The look on your face--!”

“I swear to god, if you do have some secret code that makes you shut the hell up, I would pay good caps for it.”

Deacon pulled his wig off, set it gently over his knee, and scratched at the ginger stubble that was beginning to grow beneath. “I mean about Wanderer and the elected official.” Hancock didn’t have a codename, since he was allied with but not actually part of the Railroad. Still, it didn’t do to say anyone’s names out loud while on Railroad business. The chance for spies or leaked information, however slim, even in an isolated spot like this, called for discretion.

“Wanderer and the official are going steady since Christmas, and they’ve got a good thing going. Even if I’m just their designated third wheel, I ain’t complaining.” He thought he should have been jealous, when he saw them together later that night. Nora sat on Hancock’s lap, his red frock coat draped over them both, his skin red with heat, her dress riding high and showing off a whole lot of bare ass, he expected to feel jealous, or angry, or even heartbroken. But instead, he found himself imagining their evening in more and more explicit detail, and it didn’t make him upset at all. Well, it made MacCready shift his legs and readjust how he laid even now, imagining his two favorite friends tangled up together. “I don’t know why you care, anyway.”

“Would you believe me if I said I really want to be the flowergirl at your wedding?”

MacCready wasn’t certain if Deacon could see the scathing scowl he gave him, but a snort of laughter made it clear that the spy at least knew it was there.

“I care because, the fact that we’re all friends aside, Wanderer is our biggest asset in the war with the Institute, and the elected official is arguably our biggest ally in the Commonwealth. It’s valuable having a guy like that letting us come and go through safe territory, not to mention all the strings he’s been pulling for us on Wanderer’s behalf since they started running together. I want things to work out for you all because, the more invested you all are in each other, the more the Railroad sees the benefits. The three of you are good for business, especially when you’re all on the same page and egging each other on to do good.” Deacon flashed him a knowing smile, his teeth gleaming bright in the darkness. “See, a real answer. Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Yeah, hold on, let me engrave your trophy,” MacCready grumbled. “What do you think I’m gonna do with that, huh? ‘Hey, Deacon said if you two want to help the Railroad you’ll let me have a threesome with you.’”

“Honestly -- and I mean it, really, truly _honest_ here -- you probably wouldn’t even need half that sentence to convince them. If you walked into a room and all you said was, ‘Threesome with you,’ I bet you that’d be the full extent of discussion. Have you seen how fast Wanderer can get out of her clothes? I don’t know because of anything dirty, I swear.”

“Shut up, Dee.”

“The elected official’s just a little bit slower to strip down. And that, I _do_ know because of dirty circumstances, but that was all just a huge misunderstanding that was quickly resolved. Scout’s honor.”

MacCready pulled at the collar of his undershirt. Best not to ask for details, he knew anything Deacon would say wouldn’t be true anyway, but that didn’t stop his imagination from clicking through a few scenarios on its own. “ _Aherm_. You know how long it took them to figure out what was going on between the two of them? They had plenty of time to work out their feelings, and decide whether or not I fit into them. But it never came up. It’s just flirting. End of story.”

Deacon shrugged his shoulders. It should have made a sound, the pilled tweed jacket scraping against the dry and flaky wood and worn-away plaster, but nothing Deacon ever did seemed to make a whisper of noise unless he wanted it to. “You’re just a classic case of taken-for-granted. Things with you have always been perfectly comfortable unsaid and ignored, kept as flirting and nothing more, so they haven’t had to think about it. Make ‘em think about it, is all I’m saying.”

“Right. For the Railroad’s sake, huh?”

“For the adorable dress I’m gonna wear for the ceremony. I’ve gotta warn you, I’m a show-stealer at weddings.”

~~~

There was a lot MacCready appreciated, even liked, about Starlight drive-in. Nora’s open door policy wasn’t one of them. She couldn’t just let anyone who heard her stupid little beacon walk up and settle in, no questions asked.

Nora got defensive. Did he expect her to make this town into a second Covenant? With rules and tests and paranoia that would end lives?

Bullcrap, MacCready had said. That wasn’t the point. They didn’t know who these people are, these people who could just walk in while they were sleeping, could do anything! He left the Gunners for a lot of reasons, and not feeling safe in his own home was sure as heck one of them!

At least Hancock took his side, when he’d been pressed to choose. Sure, Goodneighbor got on alright being filled to the brim with unsavory folks, but that was different. There was a tightly knit and take-no-shits crew of watchmen keeping the peace at all times; there were years of traditions, social mores, and established rules about how people behaved and treated each other. And even with all that, Goodneighbor still had crime, and muggings, and anything else a town could have, but they also had a swift and brutal justice system in place to deal with those things, and the perpetrators. But this place didn’t have those things. Not yet, anyway.

Maybe he’d gotten a bit heated over a small thing. But that was early in the morning. They had all day to cool off now.

Nora was off doing some planning with a couple of the senior settlers of the drive-in, which left Hancock and MacCready to mill around and relax in the meantime. Today, that meant window shopping in the rapidly expanding market.

Nora had big plans for this place. The location made it a great trading hub, since it already sat squarely in the center of several intersecting routes. The large plot of cleared land meant room for a fairly large market with plenty of room for residences. On one side, they made the old movie screen into a fortifying wall and guard tower for the residential portion of the town; on the other side, the projection building became a guard tower on the top, restaurant and bar on the bottom to serve as a central hub for the market. The hillside behind became farmland for the town’s permanent dwellers.

And now, that big ol’ screen was going to be used as one wall of an apartment complex Nora wanted to make. The town was getting big fast, and rather than worry about the people it was filling up with, she was worried that there wouldn’t be enough space in a few generations.

Generations! She was thinking in terms of _generations_! The amount of hope was incredible, that anyone was thinking a place like this would still be standing in ten, twenty years!

But that was Nora Fitzpatrick for ya. Thinking long-term, all the possibilities way down the line. And she was gonna be prepared.

And none of it would’ve worked out so perfect for this settlement if it weren’t for that puddle of nuclear waste actually turning out to be a sort of spring of groundwater that pooled down from the hills. One water purifier later, and the future of Starlight changed.

Goes to show, there are some things you just can’t predict, can’t plan for or expect, whether it’s a surprise natural resource or a surprise found-family.

“Oh, sh -- oot!” MacCready pointed over Hancock’s shoulder to the newest vendor to set up shop in Starlight, a former raider by the disheveled-but-learning-to-bathe looks of him, and the little vendor stall he’d set up for himself.

While the word ‘weapons’ was spelled wrong three ways across the single word, the intent of the hastily-painted sign was clear, as was the demonstrative garland of presumably-defective grenades strung beneath it.

“That gun! That’s a Stent Sec assault rifle! An R91, just like I had when I was a kid!” MacCready crowed, pulling Hancock by the arm the rest of the way to the stall, as if they weren’t walking toward it anyway.

“Awe, baby’s first firearm?” Hancock cooed, and actually, he was only half-mocking. He leaned in close to get a look. “Hell of a kick for a kid, isn’t it? How’d the recoil not blast you into the cave ceiling?”

“Hey, it was good practice. Great starter gun, actually, I learned a lot. And since it was on its last legs before I even got it, I got to repair it more than a few times over. Took it apart, put it back together, so often I could do it with my eyes shut. Learned a lot from that gun. By the time I was ready to get serious with a sniper rifle--”

“Hold up, how young were you when you got the R91--?”

“--I could handle it. Wow, would you look at her! Normally the wood on the stock gets beat up pretty bad, but this one is all still in one piece, no splinters or cracks or anything. Heh, look how short the length of pull is, the whole stock fits right in my arm like nothing! I guess it always felt bigger to me, when I was small.”

MacCready turned the gun over in his hands, laughing and pointing out little idiosyncrasies in the make and manufacture he’d noticed over the years, noting differences between this particular one and the one he grew up with. Never imagined he’d be getting sentimental over a gun he didn’t ever care to use again, but Hancock was along for the ride none the less, like a father listening to a kid prattle on about his action figure collection.

“Well, you want it or not?” Hancock said at last.

MacCready laughed, and it came out high and embarrassed. “What? This? I mean, I’d never use it. These are better short-range, and that’s not really my style.”

“Course not, ‘cause if anything gets close to you, they’ll have me to deal with first anyway. But that’s not the question. You want the gun?”

The raider-turned-merchant dug his fingernails into the soft wood of the plank countertop. Gone were the days of just taking money, now he had to wait and let customers _decide_ if they wanted to give their caps over. Apparently, this was a particular part of his new career he was still having some trouble with.

“It’s a waste of money. I wouldn’t ever use it.”

“Maybe not you, but what about Duncan?” Hancock, come to the decision regardless, started pulling out a heavy pouch looped securely to the inside of his flag belt and sifting through it for caps. “And Shaun, too, when we get him back. Said it yourself, it was a good starter gun. They’ll have to share, but hey, we’ve got other guns they can trade off with, not like we don’t have a fucking arsenal back at Sanctuary.”

For some reason, MacCready had never before imagined the two boys growing up together, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He didn’t know anything about Shaun -- neither did Nora, in fact, and it killed her. But to think of Shaun spending his fleeting childhood with Duncan, it made MacCready’s heart swell. “I guess you’re right. They’ll learn faster than I did, since they’ll actually have an adult to teach them.”

“Three adults, and a lot of other guns to practice with,” Hancock said. “My brother and I learned to shoot on an old pipe pistol, and our dad wasn’t half as good a shot as any of us are. He could barely tell me which end the bullet comes out. Our boys are gonna be miles ahead out the gate.”

“Yeah.” Our boys? _Our_ boys. MacCready thanked the steel awning for the shade that hid his sudden flustered blush. “So, uh. You wanna be the one to tell Fitz you bought our,” don’t choke on the word _our_ , play it cool, play along, “very young sons an assault rifle?”

“Oh, hell no. Are you crazy? I’m the one buying it, so _you_ have to tell her.” He winked. “Only fair, Mac.”

Fair, huh? MacCready relented with a casual shrug, but something about seeing Hancock hand over the caps and hold the gun out to MacCready almost wiped the smug smirk right off his face.

It was a gift for Duncan, and Shaun, who’d be growing up together. Was the air dry over here? His throat felt tight.

While the plans for the apartment complex were just getting underway, most of the settlement still lived in boxcars taken from the nearby tracks and Bedford Station. They were cozy, but did the job keeping out the elements and providing more privacy than most up-and-coming settlements had to offer.

Nora had a small one to herself, about half a box car that’d been cut in half with a modified laser rifle and finished with a swinging door of scrap metal on the open end. On the outside, it looked like crap. But she had the inside all gussied up with enough decorations on the walls to distract from the worn-off coating on the metal. A pendant light with dusty glass panels surrounding hazy yellow lightbulbs hung from a wire in the center of the car, and turned the whole room amber with stripes of shadow where the glass panels crossed. The effect was homey and confusing enough for the senses that you sort of forgot you were in a big metal coffin.

Two small beds were pushed together to make a double at the far end of the room. MacCready bristled at the sight of it again. It felt too vulnerable to face a wall when he slept, rather than the door. What if someone tried to get in? She hushed him and promised that Starlight was one of the safer settlements in the Minutemen’s collection, there hadn’t been any issues yet; that had been the start of their argument that morning.

It was probably one of the only times they ever outright fought, come to think of it. They could walk into raider dens and mirelurk nests all day long, but MacCready detested feeling unsafe where it was supposed to be his turf. Going into danger on his own terms was one thing. Being caught unaware and vulnerable was how people just up and died without a fight. It was how he lost Lucy.

Nora insisted Starlight was safe, though. And maybe she was a little hurt that they didn’t trust her or her settlement to keep them safe. But damn, if MacCready didn’t hate that stupid bed, and sleeping with his face to the wall.

“Should we just flip the bed around while she’s still out?” Hancock said. “We got time.”

“No, it’s her place,” MacCready groaned. He sunk into the padded chair near the door. “Worse comes to worst, if I can’t sleep, I’ll just get comfy here. Or outside. Traveling with Deacon got me on a pretty good sleep schedule for keeping watch at nights.”

“Shit, kid, that’s no fair. No one wants to kick you out of bed.”

No one freaking mentioned that he was sleeping in _their_ bed! Like it wasn’t a big deal! Like they weren’t a clearly established item! How were they still so casual about this? How was no one thinking about this but him?

Make them think about it, Deacon had said. MacCready heaved a sigh. “Hancock, about that.”

“Look, if she thinks you’re gonna stay up all night out in the cold, she’ll agree to move the bed. It’s just a stupid bed.”

“The bed wasn’t the issue. You know that, it’s… everyone else. It’s that I even have to worry that I might need to get up and defend us in the middle of the night.” MacCready pulled his cap off and tossed it on the nightstand beside his chair. “But, listen, there’s something else that’s been on my mind. We have to talk.”

Hancock’s hazy black eyes narrowed. “I know things got heated this morning, but don’t you go saying anything you don’t mean. You know Nora and I love ya.”

“I -- I know, and that’s actually what I --” He swallowed hard. “It’s about that. It’s about… about traveling with you two.”

Hancock’s look of suspicion almost instant cracked, like a brittle glass bottle hitting a tabletop just a bit too hard. Underneath, it was something almost like fear. “Mac, wait, we’ll talk it out.”

“No, I don’t want you to think -- Don’t look at me like that, Hancock!”

The hinges of the boxcar shelter’s door squeaked, and Nora Fitzpatrick was sliding in the door as quick as she could with the door open as narrowly as possible. “Is everything okay? MacCready?”

Panicked. Shoot, what she heard from outside couldn’t have sounded good. She must be jumping to the same conclusions as Hancock, that maybe he took their fight this morning a little too hard. That maybe he was angry, or upset, or about to tear apart this happy little arrangement they’d gotten so comfortable with the last few months.

And heck, maybe he was about to do that last one.

He swallowed again. He just had to tell them what they meant to him. That they were a home and a family he’d never expected to get, never thought he deserved to have ever again. To tell them that they were the light in his life he thought he’d lost for good after Lucy. That Nora adding Duncan’s survival to her long list of problems without a second thought made her more than a saint in his eyes, or that Hancock giving him a place in Goodneighbor saved his life, and he’d never be able to show them what those things meant to him if he spent his whole life trying.

That he loved them, with all his heart, with every breath of cigarette smoke air they breathed from each other’s lips.

“I just… I need you to know, I --” There was so much to say. Too much to say, and as he tried to fit a heart bursting full of confessions into a single phrase, a single sentence, his brain choked. “Threesome with you?”

“I. We? Uh -- M-Mac?” Fitz stuttered. Her face burned bright, turning brilliant red as instantly as if MacCready had flipped a switch.

“Hold on!” Hancock burst out, turning on Nora. Back straight, eyes wide, he lifted his pointer finger and waved it in MacCready’s direction. “I think the kid might be onto somethin’, here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like gratuitous timeskipping.
> 
> Hey, follow me on Tumblr at [AliceLivesOn](http://aliceliveson.tumblr.com/) and send me prompts, or just be my friend, whatever.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented and given Kudos. It's the biggest motivator in the world, truly. If you can keep that ball rolling, tell me what you think/hope/enjoyed, or have constructive criticism or thoughts, it really does mean the world to me.


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